


...and to all a good (omens) night

by andthemumblingintensifies



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: 31 Days of Ineffables, Art, Christmas, Cuddles, Established Relationship, Fanart, Holidays, Homosexuals, M/M, Mistletoe, Sentient Bentley (Good Omens), Winter, are you really homosexual, don't worry no corona here, except, hold hands, idk they're gay that's all, kiss, really just a bunch of softness, they're in love guys they're in loveeee, what no i'm not projecting you're projecting, when gender is a fuck and you're just a divine being?
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-12-02
Updated: 2020-12-16
Packaged: 2021-02-18 08:48:38
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 15
Words: 20,828
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21641410
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/andthemumblingintensifies/pseuds/andthemumblingintensifies
Summary: A collection of vaguely related, bite-sized fics that chronicle Crowley and Aziraphale's first holiday season spent together post-Armagedidn't.(What could be considered my contribution to Drawlight's Advent Calendar challenge.)
Relationships: Aziraphale & Crowley (Good Omens), Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 20
Kudos: 68





	1. underneath the mistletoe last night

**Author's Note:**

> so i completely skipped out on nanowrimo and decided to do this to make up for it. because who doesn't love some nice and fluffy ineffable husbands?

( _day one: mistletoe)_

“Can you believe,” Crowley announced his presence, entering the bookshop (most definitely closed), “That the shops across the street _already_ have their decorations up?”

He glared out the window and made a small gesture. A gust of wind came and blew an inflatable Santa Claus off the roof of a cafe directly outside. He flew down the street, chaos ensuing in his wake as the people chased him or otherwise stopped to gawk, marvel, and record. A smile cracked open on Crowley's face and he turned back around to meet his angel’s disapproval. 

Except Aziraphale wasn’t there behind him at all. “Angel?” Crowley tried, and there was no response.

He wandered over to the shelves and noticed that there was a line of snow globes that had decidedly not been there on Thursday, when he had come to visit, _Well, I know it's an American holiday, dear, with such dreadful origins too. But I should rather like to have a nice dinner with you in the shop, maybe invite some passerby in._ (Crowley had said yes, immediately, wanting an excuse to lounge all night and spoil Aziraphale properly.) He plucked one of the snow globes from its place and turned it around in his hands. It was the bookshop he now stood in, except alight with red and green, and there was a wreath in the window. He could almost see Aziraphale inside, reading one of his Austen novels (which he always grew fonder of around Christmastime), forgetting to drink his rapidly cooling cocoa. 

There was music, Crowley now noticed, thrumming away in the back of the shop, and he could also, if he strained, hear the slight sound of a voice humming along. 

“Aziraphale!” Crowley called, already making his way to that oh-so familiar back room, the path he could walk in his sleep. “Aziraphale, are you in there?” 

Nothing, still nothing. Crowley sighed, not really minding, and stalked his way to the back room, where the tune of the music was quickly showing itself to be an arrangement of “Carol of the Bells,” one that Crowley didn't care to know. Crowley never liked that sort of thing, always gravitating instead towards the rougher music. Something with a driving bass, with a good goddamn guitar solo, nothing like Aziraphale’s carols, light and airy. No, he liked the intensity, the power, the- 

“What in the heaven are you doing,” fell from the demon’s lips before he could stop himself. Aziraphale was atop a chair, reaching both arms above his head, teetering precariously. And in one hand... “Is that mistletoe?” 

Crowley looked around the small room and groaned dramatically at the state of things, bringing a frustrated-but-not-really hand to his face as he took in the warm golden light, the red bows and the space in the corner where there were several unopened boxes, labeled in Aziraphale’s familiar handwriting, “Ornaments.” Perhaps the worst part wasn't even the decorations, but instead how haphazardly they'd all been put up. How there wasn't even an equal space between each bow on the strings of garland, how the light of several candles shined against the wall and oh, _someone_ , they weren't even grouped in _threes._

“Well hello to you too, my dear,” Aziraphale remarked, under his breath but loud enough that Crowley would be able to hear. He was supposed to hear.

“Are you trying to get yourself killed up there or something? You know you can just miracle it onto the ceiling, angel,” the demon criticized, seating himself on the couch, and subsequently under Aziraphale, still on top of the chair. 

“It's not quite the same when it's miracled, you know that. Could you help me down?”

Crowley did not, this time, mention that Aziraphale could get himself down safely with a quick miracle. He stood immediately, obediently, as though he'd been ordered, and took Aziraphale’s hand, and reached to his other arm, guiding him down by the elbow. It wasn't the most graceful of maneuvers, but it allowed Crowley an excuse to hold Aziraphale against himself when he’d dismounted, an excuse to bury his fingers in that blonde-white and feathersoft hair, an excuse to embrace and remind himself that yes, _yes,_ this is real. So incredibly real. 

“Thank you,” Aziraphale breathed, then stepped back, looked up at Crowley’s face in consternation. “I suppose I’ll just have to miracle it somewhere, only,” and then there was that look, the one that meant he was about to ask for something, the one where his prying eyes looked slightly askance, where he wetted his lips before directing his gaze sharply back and finishing the request, one that Crowley would already have predicted and half-indulged. 

Now too, Crowley sighed as though this were some sort of chore and deftly took the mistletoe from Aziraphale’s hand. “Right, angel. Where did you want it?” 

“Oh, Crowley, you don’t need to-” 

“Except I do, and I will. Because, if I don’t, you’ll spend the entire evening moaning about how you didn't get the damn thing hung and you _know_ that’s the truth of it.” Crowley already had one hand on the chair, prepared to climb on top. “Now where do you want it?” 

Aziraphale pressed his lips into a thin line before saying, “Well, I was going to hang it from the ceiling, right above the sofa.” He gestured helpfully. “But it’s all useless now, anyways. My plan was to catch you by surprise, I didn't expect you'd be coming so soon.” 

Crowley registered the angel’s words, and suddenly had to suppress a laugh because oh his someone, Aziraphale had been trying to catch him under the mistletoe and how ridiculous is _that_. Four months of this, of embraces and kisses and things beyond that too, things that Crowley would not think about here, and Aziraphale tries to catch him with mistletoe. As if they needed a reason. 

“You do know,” Crowley began, drawing close, “That you don't need to put up mistletoe just to get me to kiss you. You know you can do that whenever you like, right?” 

He had come off the chair now, and was standing in front of Aziraphale again, settling his hands on his elbows, the mistletoe hanging on its red ribbon from Crowley’s long index finger. Aziraphale met his gaze, let another little, disappointed sigh escape his lips. “It's not as much fun like that.” 

“Oh, fun, yeah. Sure, definitely, tons of fun, mistletoe.” 

“Crowley.” 

“Right. Sorry. So, over the sofa then?” 

A pause, “If you wouldn't terribly mind.” 

“Anything for you, angel,” Crowley said, and he meant it, if only Aziraphale knew yet just how much he meant it. He stepped up on the little wooden chair, easily spanned the distance that Aziraphale couldn't. Aziraphale apparently hadn’t considered _how_ exactly the damn thing would stay up there, so he quickly willed a nail out of the rafter. 

“There you go,” Crowley said, coming down, looking up to admire his work. The mistletoe itself was nothing special, a cluster of green leaves and little white berries, tied together with red velvet ribbon. It swayed slightly before it settled to be still, over the couch, right over the cushion that Crowley always seemed to favor. “You need help with the rest of the decorating? You know I’ve never been a fan but really, this could use some straightening out.” 

“Are you offering to decorate the shop for _Christmas_?” 

Crowley grumbled, “I won’t be offering to do anything soon. But I, er, I’ve got a free afternoon. We could miracle a nice Cabernet, make it a, a thing.” He tried to seem nonchalant. He dropped himself onto the couch. 

“Well, if you really want to.” Aziraphale grinned. “Although, you happen to, well.” 

Crowley tilted his head back and marked his spot in relation to the ceiling, laughed hollowly. “Well, you’ve got me, angel. Although, isn’t meant to be both of us under here?” 

“Right you are, my dear.” Aziraphale sat on the couch next to Crowley obligingly. 

“What sort of angel are you?” Crowley marveled, even as he leaned forward to press his mouth against Aziraphale’s. 

This was the part they still were not used to, yet loved so well. The months had been short, and they were learning each other. Learning each curve and dip and angle and bone. Learning that, _ah, yes, that feels right when you do that_ and _oh my, this is my favorite bit right here._ They kiss, usually, free and unreserved, mouths pliant and willing, but there is always something new to discover. There is always that part of Aziraphale's mouth that Crowley hasn't explored, not yet. There is always that place where Aziraphale places his hands that makes Crowley writhe and whine, the place he hadn't known did that before. They are learning each other still, they are becoming familiar with themselves, in this kiss as much as in anything else. 

Aziraphale pulled away, just for a breath, “Well, heaven doesn't want me.” Another quick kiss, _oh, that was nice. That spontaneity, that quickness. I like that._ And then he spoke against Crowley’s lips. “So I guess I must be yours.” 

They didn't, in fact, finish decorating that afternoon. Nor that night. They stayed there, on that couch, under the dangling mistletoe, the music playing and the dim candlelight glowing. They didn't move from that couch all night, didn't move from each other, not until the sting of morning slipped through the windows to the wooden floors. Still learning, learning, learning. 

They embraced and they loved and they rocked together, together. They explored and learned and loved, the way they so dearly adored. The way that they were finally free to, the way that was becoming a habit instead of a fear. The way that they were learning they liked best. 

After it all, though, they fell asleep (Aziraphale had taken to it as well, it could hardly be avoided), with Crowley wrapped in Aziraphale’s arms, safe and protected and warm, not unlike a snake on a rock, soaking in the sun. Soaking in Aziraphale, head on his wide expanse of chest, the way that Crowley was finding to be his favorite. And Just as he began to doze off, Aziraphale kissed him goodnight. This here was new, this particular gentle press and fatigued slide of their lips together. Crowley kissed back as best as he could, telling Aziraphale with his lips, _goodnight, I love you, goodnight._

For what is mistletoe for, other than to remind us of our love?


	2. beautiful is the unmeaning

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> aziraphale watches the snow fall on december second and reminisces.

_(day two: snow)_

Aziraphale had taken to sleeping, but still wasn't accustomed to doing so for long intervals. This being the case, he only managed until sunrise before his muscles began to ache for want of movement. Regretfully, he left Crowley on the couch (he would sleep peacefully, Aziraphale made sure of it) and wandered through the shop again. The world outside was already awake, shuffling through their routine mornings, grumbling at the cold or the rain. He looked outside wistfully. It would snow, soon. It was cold enough for it, and, oh, wouldn’t it be lovely to have some snow on the second dawn of December? A positively wonderful way to begin the season. 

Yes, it would snow soon. 

______

Aziraphale had, these past few years, seen Crowley in the snow, and, well, he cut a stunning figure among those clean flakes of white. Aziraphale had often watched while Crowley (or rather, Ashtoreth) had accompanied Warlock while he played in the snow, had even played with him. Crowley may insist he was nothing more than a coldhearted, selfish demon. Aziraphale knew him better. Knew that Crowley couldn't hide his smile as Warlock made and destroyed snowmen, knew that Crowley had always reminded Warlock to make his snow angels with the heads pointing down down, knew that Crowley had often caught Warlock in his arms when he'd been running (meant to be chased) and tumbled to the ground with him, laughing, smiling kindly. Very unlike a demon.

They'd spent Christmas together one year when Warlock was six, a year when Mr. Dowling had been away in Washington D.C. and Mrs. Dowling was too busy rushing around to set up for the evening’s socialite Christmas party. The employees (Ashtoreth and Francis included) had been allowed to go home for the day, but Crowley had stayed, preferring to keep an eye on the boy he was already so fond of. Aziraphale got the phone call around noon. 

“Aziraphale.” In Ashtoreth’s voice, the vaguely Scottish lilt, “Come to the Dowling’s.”

“But-” Aziraphale had quite a difficult time trying to think of a sufficient excuse. Why wouldn't he want to spend the holiday with Crowley, who he already knew he loved so dear? Crowley who he’d love to be with every day, this day most of all. “Why are you there?” 

“Warlock’s upset,” he said desperately, not even trying to pretend he didn’t care. “You need to be here.” 

“I don't understand how that concerns me.” He was already pulling on his coat, shutting the lights off with a thought. “You’re better with him anyway.” 

There had been a breath on the line, a moment of silence. The accent fell, and it was the warm familiarity of Crowley’s voice again. “Listen, angel, I need you. Have a little heart, eh? We do still have the Arrangement, after all.”

Aziraphale sighed. “Oh, alright. I’ll be on my way. I just hope Gabriel doesn't hear about this.” 

_____

It began, as it does, flake by flake. Fluttering whimsically to the ground, sticking against the window where Aziraphale stood, watching. It was first only a few, but it caught on fast, and it was lovely, this swirling white. Not consuming, but adorning, adorning everything it could. It was sticking, just as Aziraphale had hoped it would. He could already tell that it was the kind of snow the children reveled in, the kind where they ran outside and played for hours as their parents ordered them repeatedly to come back inside. The kind of snow that painters love, that the poets worship. The snow that brings with it the ringing of “Merry and bright, merry and bright.” The kind that would cause the workers to grumble about, even as they secretly love it. It was the kind of snow that people fall in love with, the kind that people fall in love in. 

Yes, Aziraphale loved this snow, loved it well. He made a silent resolve to go for a stroll later, to drag Crowley along with him, and force him to enjoy himself. They could come back to the shop then, later, yes, later, and finish the decorating. Go out for a nice dinner. Perhaps Crowley would be willing to stay another night, even. Perhaps the week. 

(Aziraphale watched the snow, falling, falling, falling. Silently falling, amid the world that was awake, bustling, loud and alive. The snow fell, unbothered by everything that was in its way.)

Perhaps he could ask Crowley to stay forever. 

_____

Warlock had, unexpectedly, allowed Aziraphale to hug him. It was a rare occasion; the boy had always favored the mothering embrace of his nanny. But he was crying, hiccuping sobs that he forced out of his chest, and he opened his arms to Aziraphale almost immediately. The only choice was to kneel on the ground, squeezing him firmly. 

“Well, what is it that’s got you so teary-eyed on Christmas, Master Warlock?” Aziraphale-as-Francis asked him, his voice concerned and gentle. Warlock didn’t answer, he didn’t need to. His breath was better suited for crying at the moment, as Crowley came over and kneeled similarly, rubbing Warlock’s back in as soothing a manner that he could manage. 

“His mother is too busy getting ready for tonight. Didn’t have enough time for him, the poor dear,” Crowley explained, soft and soothing and setting something alight at the base of Aziraphale’s head. 

Aziraphale nodded in understanding, patting Warlock’s back slightly, not knowing what to say, not knowing what wisdom to offer. He mumbled something incoherent into the fabric of his shirt, Aziraphale looked helplessly to Crowley for translation. 

Crowley sighed, “He thinks his parents don’t love him anymore- Darling, you know that isn’t true.” He gently guided Warlock to stand on his own, facing them both. From somewhere within the folds of the dress (red, it was red today and good _Lord_ , Aziraphale couldn’t help but notice how stunning he was. Beautiful, beloved), a handkerchief appeared, and Crowley began to wipe away the tears, held it to the small nose so he could blow. 

“Master Warlock,” Aziraphale began as Crowley pulled the handkerchief away, folding it, “Your mother and father love you very much. They just, er.” 

“Forget to show it sometimes.” Crowley finished for him, took Warlock’s hand. “And that is where we come to help, isn’t it, Francis?” 

“Well, actually-” 

“Here, if you can go and get yourself all dressed in time, we can go to the park and throw some pebbles at the ducks,” Crowley suggested enthusiastically. Warlock brightened significantly and went off to some distant corner of the room where his closet was. 

“You needed me here for this?” Aziraphale asked normally, once the boy was out of earshot. 

Crowley hissed, “Well I can’t be influencing the Anti-Christ too far to my ssside, now can I? This could have been a pivotal moment right here.” 

“And then taking him outside too- it’s not even snowing, Crowley!” Aziraphale complained.

Crowley smiled and tipped his head towards the window. “Is now. Come on, angel. We’re godfathers, remember?” 

______

Aziraphale hardly even noticed when Crowley approached, didn’t notice until the demon circled around his back and came to stand at his left hand side. 

“What’s got your attention?” 

Aziraphale couldn’t help his small, childish smile. “It’s snowing, my dear.”

“Mm, yep. I see that.”

Aziraphale turned, smile falling. “Well, I thought it was a rather beautiful scene. Did you sleep well?” 

“Slept fine, angel. Always do. So did you do this, or is it just snow of the,” he sniffed, “Ineffable sort.” 

Aziraphale returned his gaze outside, stepped closer to Crowley and slipped his arms around Crowley’s right one. Leaned against him, watched the snowflakes falling (falling over time, over all this time, still falling. Still falling. They watched out the window). “Just snow, my dear. Just snow.” 

______

“Look at our little monster,” Crowley beamed, watching as Warlock tumbled in the snow and chased after what unfortunate birds had not been clever enough to take shelter. 

_Our_ . They were on a bench as the Antichrist played in the snow, on Christmas. Angel and demon together. _Our_. 

Even so. “He isn’t _our_ child, Crowley,” Aziraphale refuted softly under his breath. 

He felt Crowley shrug before he turned to look at him. “Might as well be. S’not like his parents are doing much of the actual raising.” 

“We- I- He’s the Antichrist!” 

“Well he’s _our_ Antichrist,” Crowley snapped, his voice still matching Aziraphale’s quiet. There was an edge of possessiveness here, and Aziraphale couldn’t determine if it was for Warlock or for… 

No, that wouldn’t do. It was for Warlock. It had to be.( _Our_ , _our_ monster, _our_ Antichrist, playing in the snow in front of _us_ while _we_ quietly enjoy _our_ Christmas.) 

“Oh,” said Crowley, reaching into his bag, “I’ve got something for you. Picked it up the other day, seemed like your sort of thing.” He passed it over primly- he couldn’t shake all of Ashtoreth’s habits, especially not when in full dress- watching Aziraphale for his reaction. 

Aziraphale held it in his hands, felt the weight and the size of it. It was a book, unmistakable even when wrapped in red paper. Aziraphale tucked it in his coat, made it promise to stay dry. 

“I’ll open it when we get home,” he promised. And then, with a slight, incredibly brief press to Crowley’s hand, he whispered, “Thank you, Anthony.” 

And there they were. Flakes of snow found a home in Crowley's flame-lick hair, on his brow, nestling into all the spaces Aziraphale wished he could be. Just this once, he let Crowley watch him look. (White on red, finding a home. Beautiful.) They sat and watched each other, as the snow was still falling and falling and falling. 

  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i took a bit of inspiration from the song "winter" by joshua shank which is absolutely haunting and incredibly beautiful. it borrows from several of e. e. cummings poems, i'm not sure of exactly which ones though. so, just giving credit where credit's due. i wouldn't have finished this today if i wasn't playing it on repeat oops.


	3. in thy dark streets shine the everlasting light

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> crowley owns a single christmas decoration, and he has a tendency to break things.

_ (day three: nutcracker)  _

Crowley had a single Christmas decoration to his name. 

He, by and large, and never been a fan. Sort of in the job description, he wasn't meant to be celebrating any holidays that came from Upstairs, so he didn't. He had never quite taken to them anyway, never understood the whole premise of Christmas, the trees and the lights and the mistletoe and the garland and- blergh. He could live his whole life happily without ever seeing chestnuts roasting on an open fucking fire ever again, thank you very much. 

But he did have the one decoration. A nutcracker, which he placed opposite the couch in the living room. Just the one, and nothing else.

Crowley, after all, had been the one to invent nutcrackers in the first place. He could hardly help it, he had been bored out of his mind and it was 1452 (a terrible year in Crowley’s estimation.) So could he really be blamed for wanting to stir up some  _ interesting _ mild chaos? They didn't work, and they never worked, and they never would work. And yet the humans loved them, they collected them, they displayed them proudly every December, and Crowley was delighted as he watched them fail and break. The humans didn't know why they kept buying the hideous things. Really, Crowley was quite proud. 

He hadn’t bought this particular nutcracker until the late seventeen-hundreds, though he couldn't quite remember the exact year. 

It stayed in a box for most of the year, shoved deep inside Crowley’s closet, where there was no risk of him seeing. No risk of anyone seeing. No risk of Crowley seeing. If he saw, he might spill over, might get rid of it, might throw it against the wall and let the useless thing break as it was designed to. It was just a nutcracker, one of millions. (It was more it was more it meant so much more.)

It was 1782, or perhaps 1785 when Aziraphale had spotted it in a woodworker’s shop (he and Crowley had forgone their usual meeting place of St. James; it was far too cold for either to brave). He had asked Aziraphale to meet him under the pretense of the Arrangement, as theyhad so many other times. There was a temptation that he had to cover in America, and he would have gone without a second thought. Would have. But this way? If he tried to swap with Aziraphale, well, then he would have  _ this. _ That moment, in a small woodworker’s shop, another moment to argue with Aziraphale, to banter with Aziraphale, to bask in his presence. That blessed (bless’ed presence, two syllables) presence, beside him. What he would have given for forever with Aziraphale beside him. What he still would. 

Aziraphale is, and always has been, brilliant and beautiful and good and bright. Bright white light, with none of the glow of heaven, shining in the dirty, blackened streets of London, in this ugly and imperfect world. Aziraphale, white and warm, against the black-soot chill of Crowley. They had always been this way. Aziraphale had always been the light. Aziraphale would always be the light. 

Crowley normally didn’t put the nutcracker out until Christmas Eve, when he was dreadfully alone. Alone in the blackness, in the dark. The curtains drawn to block out the light outside. Christmas Eve when Aziraphale was just a drive away, but Crowley was too scared to go to him, to call him, to ask to come over (even though he’d say yes, he’d always say yes, yes, yes). It was odd how different that was now. How he had just left Aziraphale’s shop, how he had kissed him goodbye, promised to be back soon. How the distance was less agonizing, now that he knew Aziraphale felt the same longing. 

Where the hell had he put it again? Why couldn’t he remember? 

Crowley remembered how it was tall and gleaming when Aziraphale had first seen it, and so that was how it stayed now. The paint hadn’t peeled, the sheen hadn’t dulled. It glowed (light and bright and good and so very much like Aziraphale) if only slightly, in the dark gloom of Crowley’s flat. When Aziraphale had seen it for the first time, he smiled, so brilliantly, so brilliantly. He had turned to Crowley happily, turned to the nutcracker that stood on the shelf. Back to Crowley, and the demon’s heart had clenched. Crowley could feel it still, all these years later, the way his heart had squeezed in on itself, wanting and longing and loving. 

Right, the closet! He’d put it in the back of his closet, covered the box with a blanket. Where it always was, where he always put it. He made for the walk-in. 

The thing itself wasn’t remarkable. It was plain enough, the simple work of a simple craftsman. The uniform was painted a clean white, a tall red hat upon its head. It was meant to resemble a soldier, but it fell just short of intimidating. As a matter of fact, the stout figure was welcoming, kind, even. The word Aziraphale had used was “loved.”  _ “Oh, Crowley, it’s a shame that I’d have nowhere to put it. He’s so  _ loved _. _ ” Aziraphale had touched Crowley’s hand lightly, had reached for him as his voice canted on “ _ loved” _ . Crowley could still feel the ghost of Aziraphale’s hand there. Brushing against his fingers. It had bought Crowley’s silence for another hundred years.  _ Loved _ . 

Crowley didn’t feel the “ _ love _ ” that Aziraphale had. But he felt  _ something _ , and that  _ something _ was powerful enough to go back to the shop the next day and buy the dreadful thing on the spot. And when he looked at it, he thought of his angel, his angel whom he loved. 

Crowley tossed aside the black blanket, made of something like velvet. The box was there, still the same package as back in 17-whatever, and he picked it up reverently. He made to carry it into the living room. 

It would be odd, this year, to have it out so early. It would be odd to no longer have to hide. To be near Aziraphale without breaking him, without breaking this silence that had surrounded everything they’d done. Although...well.

He was still scared, scared of breaking him, of breaking this. It was what he had always done. Crowley made things that were meant to break, or else he broke them himself. Crowley had a talent for breaking things. 

He set the box tentatively on the floor, exhaling in relief. It was growing old, fragile, more precious. It had never really worried him before, but it did this time. For some reason, he couldn't help but to be overly cautious, overly careful. This was different, now, as so much before had been. He opened the top, and began the process of lifting the solid wood nutcracker out. 

When he first bought it, Crowley had intended to give it to Aziraphale, a Christmas gift. But, as he so often did, he thought it over and over and over some more, and he could never quite think of the right way to do it. He couldn’t figure out how to give it to Aziraphale without telling him, without striding up to him and taking him in his arms and kissing him with all the confidence he didn’t have. The confidence he was only now slowly finding.

Maybe this year. Maybe he’d show up at the bookshop on Christmas Eve, and have the nutcracker wrapped like it was before, and act all nonchalant when Aziraphale opened it, when delight overcame that so-loved face. Take him into his arms, kiss him, insist it wasn't a big deal, don’t tell him that he's been meaning to give it to him for the better part of three centuries. Aziraphale probably wouldn't even remember the figure, he would just see it as new and love it, just as he had years and years and years ago. 

The carpet was approaching more rapidly than Crowley thought, and, before he could stop himself, he stumbled on the edge. His awkward, too-serpentine step found him caught midway to tripping. 

And the nutcracker fell. 

The arm came off, brittle with age, and skittered across the floor. Chips of wood littered the ground. 

“Fuck!” Crowley yelled, and then went to his knees and scrambled to pick up the pieces. “Fuck, fuck, g- _ dammit _ !” 

He could miracle it together again. It would barely take any effort, but Aziraphale would be able to tell. Things felt different when they were miracled. Aziraphale would be able to tell, he  _ knew _ Aziraphale would be able to tell. The  _ Love _ probably wouldn't even be there anymore.  _ Fuck _ . How could he have done that? How could he have fucked up  _ so _ badly? 

He hissed again, even as his hands passed over the nutcracker and made it as new, “ _ Ssshit.”  _

Crowley had a talent for breaking things. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> honestly...im just used to adding notes at the bottom of something. feels wrong not to have it. anyway, i had to make crowley a little sad. holidays are happy, but they can also be rife with negative emotions.


	4. when loved ones are near

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> aziraphale and crowley argue over long drives, gps, and cranberries.

_ (day four: cranberries) _

Aziraphale looked at Crowley’s phone reluctantly, following the small blue arrow in its path along the screen with his watchful eyes. He still wasn’t quite sure how this was meant to work, but he was getting the hang of it.

“It looks like you’re going to make a left onto this next street,” he notified Crowley, about a mile too early. 

“Here?” Crowley asked, speeding (naturally) through the vaguely familiar streets outside of London. 

“Yes, here!” Aziraphale insisted, raising his voice in frustration, in panic. His body slammed against the door abruptly afterwards, as Crowley took the turn at breakneck speed. He settled a hand firmly against the roof of the Bentley to steady himself. They’d been out, searching for about five hours now, and Crowley’s driving had become less and less lawful. Aziraphale offered a silent prayer that he would manage to get back to Crowley’s flat at the end of the day with his corporation. Still intact, preferably. He glanced back down to the small phone and huffed. “Oh, Good Lord. It’s rerouting.” 

“ _ Rerouting? _ ” Crowley repeated, hard and grating. 

“Do you think you made a wrong turn?” 

“Of course we made a wrong turn!” Crowley exclaimed, “Otherwise, it would not be  _ rerouting _ !” 

Aziraphale pouted, “Well I apologize that I don’t know how your modern telephones-” 

“Cell phones,” Crowley corrected. 

“Right. I don’t understand these telephones of yours, so it’s not my fault that you took a wrong turn,” he argued. 

“It’s absolutely your fault! I am putting my faith and my trust in you, angel-” 

Aziraphale interrupted, “But that was your own decision! You made your proverbial bed, Crowley. Turn right.” 

“Right now?” 

Aziraphale ruffled at Crowley’s doubt. “As soon as you can, yes!” 

“So now?” 

“Yes, now!” 

“Well, okay then!” 

Crowley whipped the Bentley around a corner again, leaving Aziraphale to slide wildly around the seat. 

“There’s really no need to be so aggressive about it,” he muttered. 

“This is how I always drive, angel. You know that.” 

Aziraphale glared at the phone, challenged it with his eyes. It wouldn't. It wouldn't  _ dare _ tell him what he already knew. 

“Angel?” 

If anything,  _ anything  _ showed up on this screen, he would smite this blasted telephone into the next millennium. 

Crowley groaned. “What have you done?”

Aziraphale balled his fist, preparing to deliver divine justice. 

“Aziraphale...” 

He sighed, defeated. “It’s rerouting.” 

“ _ Fucking hell! _ Alright, give me the phone.” 

“While you're driving? Absolutely not!” 

“Just give me the phone, Aziraphale,” Crowley argued back.

The car swerved dangerously as Crowley reached blindly, wildly for the phone. Aziraphale kept it artfully away from him, having seen plenty of those advertisements about the dangers of distracted driving. If Crowley thought for even a moment that Aziraphale would allow him to endanger themselves like that, well, he was sorely mistaken. Alerted by the screen, he yelled, “Left! Now!” 

“Left?!” 

“Left, Crowley!” 

Once again, the Bentley whipped around the turn, and Crowley immediately yelled, without giving Aziraphale time to recover, “Is it rerouting?!” 

“It’s not!” 

“It’s not!” Crowley echoed, then calmed down, laughing in exhaustion. “Dear someone, all this for some cranberries?”

Aziraphale pouted, “This recipe deserves only the best. I’ve been using organic, naturally farmed, delicious cranberries from this farm for the last two centuries, my dear, and I’ve not been let down yet.” 

“Still,” Crowley complained, “It’s a three hour drive!” 

“It's worth it. Another left here, please.” 

Despite the still ungodly speed at which Crowley was driving, this turn was much more smooth than the last two. Aziraphale let himself relax. 

“One pie,” Crowley said, “All this for one pie.” 

“One very  _ good _ pie,” Aziraphale clarified, helpfully. “I would’ve made the trip myself, made a week of it but, well, you did come over.” 

“With the intention of spending a night out, yes.” 

Aziraphale looked out the window. “Well, it’s nearly night, and we are out.” 

“In multiple senses,” Crowley snorted out a laugh. 

A roll of the eyes, and a barely contained smile, then Aziraphale remembered he didn't need to contain it anymore, and let himself smile wide. Yes, he could now, he could now. “You incorrigible serpent. You’re ridiculous, my dear.” 

“Mm. Then I'm lucky you love me.” Crowley’s hand found its way to Aziraphale’s thigh, squeezed it slightly. Aziraphale couldn’t help the fondness that filled his chest, bloomed through all of him, warmed him more than the small climate of the Bentley ever could. This, this had been what all the wait was for. (This was worth it.) He enveloped the familiar shape of Crowley’s hand.

He made a face that suggested he was imparting some great wisdom, looking straight ahead, navigation forgotten. “Yes, I rather suppose you are. I think I recognize this area now.” 

“Well that's a relief. Especially considering, um.” Crowley gestured at the phone in Aziraphale’s other hand, and it was only then that Aziraphale realized that Crowley hadn’t been watching the road. 

Aziraphale looked down. 

“Oh, dear.” 

______

“So when were you going to tell me that you cook, angel?” Crowley leaned against the clean black counter for not even a moment before Aziraphale waved him away. 

“I don't,” he replied, rolling out the dough, white powder on his knuckles. “I've become fond of baking in, oh, just the last half millennium or so, but I’ve never been a particularly good chef.”

“You're better at eating than cooking, then,” Crowley teased, plucking a red berry from the bowl next to Aziraphale’s makeshift workstation in Crowley’s (mostly unused) kitchen. 

“You could say that.” He swatted Crowley’s hand and set back to work with a small smile. It was this, this domesticity, this familiarity that he liked best so far. The way Crowley always pestered him, teased him until Aziraphale worked himself red, red as these cranberries, and then made him forget by doing something unbearably sweet. Well, unbearably sweet or laughably stupid. The two swung wildly on a pendulum between. Even here, even now, as Aziraphale carefully draped the yet-unbaked crust into the tin, he knew Crowley had something up his sleeve. He saw, in the corner of his eye, the lithe fingers slipping into the bowl once more. “I’ve warned you, Crowley-” 

“Oh, sure, but it’s not for me,” he said, and then he was holding the fruit in front of Aziraphale’s face. 

Aziraphale stood there, unimpressed as he could manage, eyeing Crowley with his brow raised. So this had been his grand plan, to feed him as though he were a child refusing his vegetables. “Really, my dear.” 

Crowley smiled his usual grin, the one he used when he was trying to tempt Aziraphale, when he was trying to get under his skin or make him do something or other. When he was next to him in bed and knew that he was about to convince Aziraphale to stay in for a few more hours. When he was underneath the mistletoe and somehow the plan was all reversed and Aziraphale  _ knew _ that Crowley was about to get whatever he wanted from him (how could he refuse after all that refusing that he used to do?). When Crowley already knew that Aziraphale would help him stop the apocalypse, before Aziraphale himself knew. 

“Oh, come on,” Crowley pushed, his entire body folding to match Aziraphale’s height. “You don’t really need all of these.” 

“You’re not really even meant to eat them raw. They're far too tart on their own.” 

Crowley scoffed, “Well that’s just ridiculous. Fruit’s fruit, right?” 

“If you say so, my dear.” Aziraphale cocked a half smile, “Try it yourself.” He forgot the task at hand, turning instead to watch Crowley consider the berry with distaste and disgust, before looking at Aziraphale with challenge in his eyes. He popped it into his mouth defiantly, and, really, Aziraphale couldn't be blamed for his sudden laugh, however inappropriate, at the look on Crowley’s face (and the odd half-choke that seemed to get caught in the demon's throat). Lips puckered, eyes wincing, nose scrunched up like he’d been forced to smell something foul. And-

“Ugh, what the fuck?” He turned and spat into the sink, only furthering Aziraphale’s delighted giggles.“I didn't think they had fucking  _ seeds _ .” 

“You can eat the seeds, you know. And goodness, they aren't  _ that  _ bad. That was quite an overreaction.” 

Crowley had his tongue out, an unpleasant look on his face. “It was not! That’s disgusting- you better not make me eat any of that rubbish.” 

Aziraphale looked from the counter to which Crowley was pointing, then back at Crowley himself. “The pie?” He pressed forward, “The one I've worked on so hard, just for us?” Then, knowing that these might not be persuasive enough, “The one you drove nearly six hours, round trip, just so I could make? That’s what you’re not going to eat?” 

Crowley was faltering. “Well, uh.” 

"That's fine then, more for me, right? Although,” Aziraphale paused, working his white-powdered hands around the back Crowley’s neck, into his hair, teasing the strands at his nape. “Although, it’s a shame I'll have gone to all this effort just for myself. And you won't even have the chance to appreciate it.” 

Crowley didn’t get to open his mouth before Aziraphale took advantage of the moment and pressed his lips hot against him. He delighted in the way that Crowley keened, the way he kept leaning closer, even as Aziraphale leaned back, dragging his hands along the black lapels of Crowley's jacket as he went. He finally,  _ finally _ managed to pull himself away, with a rather obscene “smack” of a sound. 

“You'll eat the pie?” He asked, although he just as well could have ordered, commanded. (Crowley may be able to tempt him, but it went both ways. Aziraphale knew, just as well as Crowley did, that he had full power over him. He only had to say the word, and Crowley would fold. He  _ knew _ .) 

“Yeah, angel,” Crowley said, voice still shrouded in that dizzy fog of Aziraphale. “I’ll eat the pie.” 

“Good.” Aziraphale turned back to his baking and said, without looking up, “And you may want to consider getting changed. I’m afraid your jacket is rather ruined.” 

“Right. ‘Course. Be right back,” Crowley managed out. Aziraphale smiled as Crowley walked away, deliberately following his instructions. Yes, he was as much in power as Crowley would ever be. And, well, he rather enjoyed it. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> holy hell i got so far behind. i'll be slowly catching up now. also it's getting really hard to find chapter names oops.


	5. listen to the fireplace roar

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> aziraphale hadn't anticipated the way crowley reacts to fire (even the domesticated variety).

_ (day five: fire) _

“We could always watch ‘It’s a Wonderful Life’ again,” Aziraphale called from Crowley's living room, where he was searching through a drawer of old tapes and discs for any vaguely festive movies worth watching. 

“Oh, no, angel. You made me watch that in, what was it…?” 

“Nineteen-forty six,” Aziraphale supplied helpfully.

“Right,” Crowley spoke from the kitchen, where he was similarly looking through his cabinets for anything worth drinking. Maybe some popcorn too. “That was when it first came out, wasn’t it?” 

“You’d be correct. Is that a yes?” 

“ _ No _ ,” Crowley emphasized, “My point was that I never want to see that damn thing again.” 

There was a pause during which Crowley found a nice bottle of Chardonnay that he'd been saving for the right moment.  _ Well, _ he thought, grabbing it and going through his drawers for the bottle opener,  _ No time like the present. _

“Well, my dear,” Aziraphale said, and Crowley could  _ hear  _ the affronted face, “I don't understand why you have the DVD if you never intend to watch it. It’s been opened, too.” 

There was the posture, loud and blaring, even from another room. The one where Crowley knew, he just knew that Aziraphale would be standing upright and offended, chewing on his lip, glancing between the DVD case and Crowley, trying to weed his secrets out of him, trying to get him to spill everything he kept so carefully inside (don’t spill it over don’t let it show, don’t break him. He has a talent for breaking things). Crowley sighed, placed both his hands on the counter in front of him and dropped his head down. 

“Oh, you know.” He picked up the bottle by the neck and carried the two glasses in his other hand, walking into the living room. “Mem...or…” 

“What is it?” Aziraphale asked, looking up from where he was at the fireplace. The fireplace that was always cold and desolate and lonely and so so far away from ablaze with light. The fireplace that was never,  _ never _ as it was now. 

“Az...Aziraphale…” 

He stood there, suddenly very, very pale and far too cold for all the warmth in the room. All the warmth coming from the- from the blazing- 

Aziraphale’s eyes were suddenly wide with understanding, then fear, then shock as he rushed to Crowley to grab the glasses and the bottle from his hands. Not that Crowley knew how he was shaking, how he was trembling like a sinner before the eyes of God. How his breath was coming short and fast and shallow, barely filling those too human lungs. 

_ A bookshop in Soho. An Apocalypse. Police officers and firemen and the blasted heat of fire, fire, fire, fire…. _

“Put it out,” Crowley whispered, weaker than he would have liked. He had no sunglasses to hide his eyes, big and golden and reflecting that red, red, so red firelight. That glare, that reminder, that echo of what was still slamming around his useless head, even though it had been months past. His own voice, wretched and raw and fuckwrecked from screaming.  _ Somebody killed my best friend! _

Aziraphale set the bottle and the glasses down on the side-table, then came back around to Crowley. He laid a hand on the black-clad elbow. Crowley couldn’t feel it. “I thought a fire might, well, set the mood,” he offered, soft as he could, soft as the feathers on his back. 

The fire was blazing, roaring, devouring everything around him. It was the end of the world, Aziraphale was gone, and Crowley was sitting in a burning book shop, sitting helpless and desperate as it collapsed around him. Sitting there as his world ended hours ahead of schedule, as his world crumbled to ash around him.  _ Aziraphale, where the heaven are you, you idiot?! _

“Angel, please,” he muttered, and then mustered up the cognizance to snap his fingers weakly. It took him a few tries to put out the fire, but the flames eventually died within the fireplace (which must have been miracled; he didn’t have that here before). He took a heaving, shuddering breath and turned, collapsing into Aziraphale’s arms. 

There was no roaring fire now. No heat on his brimstone skin, and Aziraphale was here. He was here, and he was here, and he was here. 

“I didn't think…” Aziraphale began, then faltered, “I didn't know.” 

Crowley nodded, his head on Aziraphale’s shoulder, long arms around a sweater-clad waist, bent almost in half. He wanted to say, wanted to yell,  _ I couldn't find you, you idiot, it was the only time I couldn't find you!  _ He tried to get his paralyzed tongue to work, to form words, but he couldn’t find the them, couldn't describe exactly what that moment was. All he had was his voice, that useless thing, without reason or form. He whimpered out what he could, a desperate little sound, quiet and sorrowful. Nothing could encompass the fire, the- the-

(It was terror it was grief it was the world ending and it was all of this and more, but Crowley couldn't think properly at just this moment. All he had was touch, feeling, _ this _ .)

Aziraphale, uncertain in the silence, continued, “I never considered, well. Perhaps I should have.” Crowley felt the shift of the head, and then the press of lips to his temple. The carding of fingers through his hair. He leaned into this, into this familiarity of Aziraphale. All that was new and all that was the same; that had perhaps never changed. Here was the cool breeze of the morning, the old-book scent of Aziraphale, the story that they have repeated time and time and time again. There is safety, there is familiarity. There is absolutely nothing, _nothing_ of fire. 

Crowley shook his head from side to side, tremulously. Slowly, weakly, dreadfully, he stood straighter, cemented himself on his own two feet. And he looked down, down at Aziraphale, who's face betrayed that he was feeling, feeling...something. Something that Crowley couldn’t quite read. Something he hadn't seen before. Something that terrified him. ( _ What does it mean? Are you worried, are you sympathetic? Scared? Oh, someone, please don’t be scared. Don’t regret me.)  _

Aziraphale took a deep breath and slipped his hands into Crowley’s, trying for a good look at his eyes. Crowley cursed himself for not wearing his sunglasses.  _ There was quiet, there was peace, there was no fire. _ “Is it,” Aziraphale hazarded a guess, “I mean, could it be because of Armageddon? Or, well. Not- Armageddon?” 

Crowley remained quiet. He didn’t want to say it, he didn’t want to make it real. Not again, not so soon, he couldn’t handle living it all over again. Aziraphale tried again, “High stress can trigger painful memories. Do you think you were traumatized when you, ah, Fell?” 

He was too consumed in thoughts to notice the remark, to notice how it would have hurt otherwise. He was inside his mind again, that torturous, lonely place, and all he could think to communicate was a pained whisper. Quiet as the air and soft as it, too, even as it tore rip-roaring, blazing fire through his mind. All this fire. All this hateful, hateful fire.

“I thought I lost you.” 

Aziraphale perked up. “My dear?” 

Crowley breathed a deep breath, the scent of crackling logs long gone. There was no fire here. “I couldn’t find you, it was the only time I couldn’t find you. Aziraphale…” 

There are things that Crowley doesn’t have to say. Aziraphale doesn’t have to say them, either. They do not have to say how scared he had been. They do not have to say that there was a chance they’d never see each other again. They do not have to say that it could have been hellfire or that Crowley could have never brought the prophecies with him and that there had always been a possibility that none of this would have come to pass. They do not have to say any of this, because they already know. They know all too well, all too acutely. Crowley knows that he had been ready to give up on the world because he lost Aziraphale (there is no world without Aziraphale). Crowley  _ knows. _ He does not say. 

The silence speaks for them. It speaks the roaring of the fire and the relief of their reunion, the tranquility of this moment, of this life, of this second chance. It is December the fifth, and they are alive, and they are together. 

“I’ll check on the pie, dear, you can get the movie started,” Aziraphale eventually said. “I hardly understand how those damn machines work.” 

Crowley cracked a smile, the barest of smiles, “Right, I can’t have you breaking yet another of my things. Did we decide on a movie? I’m really feeling ‘Diehard’.” 

Aziraphale set his mouth in a hard line. “You’re impossible.” A timer dinged. “Oh! That’s it already?” With a squeeze to Crowley’s hand, he was shuffling into the kitchen. The smoke alarm would no-doubt go off, and Aziraphale would complain about how burnt it was, and Crowley would end up miracling something together, after all. But for now, there was none of that. Not here. 

There was nothing of fire here. 

  
  
  
  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> told ya i was catching up. also, yes, im sorry. panic attack crowley is my favorite crowley to write.


	6. in heav'n the bells are ringing

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> aziraphale recalls a memory from before all of this(lowercase "b"), a memory of sleigh bells and another christmas.

_ (day six: sleigh bells) _

It was London in 1734, and the tension between Crowley and Aziraphale had yet to spike. They'd argued, sure, but they hadn't had the Big One yet (the  _ I-don’t-need-you  _ argument, the one that set them back so far). They didn't know what was happening, they didn't know what was going to happen. They were not two friends, miles apart on the same path in St. James’ park. They were, instead, two friends sitting together in a horse-drawn carriage, riding through the streets of London, protecting themselves from the snow with miracles they both hoped the higher-ups (or, in Crowley’s case, lower-downs) wouldn’t care much about. 

There was nowhere to go, but they rode anyway. It had been a gap of about thirty years since they'd last seen each other. They needed an excuse. (Or, well, Aziraphale needed an excuse. Crowley never had, never needed to say why or explain away all the meetings. Aziraphale was always the one insisting.) 

“I thought you weren't fond of horses,” Aziraphale said, halting, holding back everything he wished he could say. They had ended up here together by chance. There was so much more that he could say.  _ I've missed you, where have you been? Why didn't you stop by? You know where I am, you know where I’ve been for the last hundred years. Why didn’t you visit? _

Crowley sniffed. “I’m not. Carriages are at least a little better. Mind if I…?” He shifted closer, pressed himself against Aziraphale’s side. “Snake. Cold blood,” he said, as though that excused it. As though Aziraphale wasn't about to faint into Crowley’s lap, slip down onto the carriage floor. 

“A-ah. Yes.” He looked down at his hands, concealed in white gloves. Linked the fingers together. Pulled them apart. Ran fingers over his thumb, fiddling with the ring under his glove. Folded them, palm over palm.  _ What are you doing? Do you know what you're doing to me? _

Aziraphale couldn't, he just  _ couldn't  _ pay attention to Crowley leaning against him, to the comfortable pressure, the odd warmth of his body, despite his profession of being cold. If he thought about the barest distance between the two of them, the way that if he turned they might- 

He couldn't think about it. 

He couldn't, he couldn't think about anything, anything about Crowley. If he let himself think, he was surely lost.  _ You terrible temptation. You, who created sin. Why does it have to be you?  _

Something else, anything else.  _ Where is that ringing coming from? Bells, but where? _ It didn't matter where. He focused on that, focused on the ringing. Sleigh bells, they must be. They jingled, light and merry and playful, along to the rhythm of the horse’s trot. Yes, listen to the sleigh bells, listen to that gentle jingling, ringing over the sound of rushing white noise in his ears. Crowley was leaning against his arm,  _ Lord Above _ , Crowley was leaning against his arm. 

“What are you in town for?” Crowley asked, casually enough. But he knew, he had to know, didn’t he? 

“I live in London,” Aziraphale answered, factually, not at all thinking about Crowley against his arm,  Crowley against his arm, Crowley against his arm. No, he was thinking of the sleigh bells. He'd played bells, Before. In Heaven.  _ How can such a slight, platonic touch drive me absolutely, thoroughly mad?  _

“Oh, I know that,” came the response, spoken too-close, too-harsh.  _ Such lovely music, those bells. I am not thinking of that soft line of black against me. No, never. _ “I meant here, specifically. Soho, I think the humans are calling it.” 

“Ah. I’m,” and then he hesitated. How would Crowley take this? How  _ could _ Crowley possibly take this as anything other than a joke? Blending in among humans, his grand plan, it was really, well, “You’ll think I’m just a silly old angel.” 

“And what if I already know you're a silly old sod?” 

Aziraphale laughed single, humorless,  _ ha _ . “This is exactly why I didn’t want to tell you.” 

“Come  _ on _ , angel.” Crowley nudged him, slightly, so slightly.  _ Bells, the bells, the bells.  _ “We’re friends. You can tell me. I won’t laugh, promise.” 

Aziraphale was too shaken to correct Crowley’s comment. “How am I meant to trust you? Have you forgotten-” 

And then Crowley was pulling back, yanking back, and Aziraphale was strangely bereft. Like he’d had his glory stripped from him, like he’d lost everything, everything that he had. All Crowley had done was moved. “Yes, I know. I’m a demon, but I am also, first and foremost, your friend. Tell me.” 

The bells jingled along gaily. “Well, if you insist. I’m opening a book shop,” he admitted. 

There was a quiet, a breath. The bells held Aziraphale’s attention, until both of Crowley’s arms coiled around Aziraphale’s right arm and oh,  _ it’s impossible to pretend that he isn't ruining me right now. Tell me, do you know what you're doing to me?  _ “I said it was foolish.” 

“No,” Crowley muttered, “It’s- it suits you. I think that's nice.” 

Aziraphale swallowed hard and brought his left hand to rest over Crowley’s.  _ Think of the bells, think of the bells, think of the bells before you discorporate.  _ “Thank you, my dear. You must be frightfully cold.” 

“Insanely,” Crowley clarified. He tightened his grip, “You’ll have to let me know when it opens. I’ll make myself available, drop in for a little celebration.” 

Aziraphale smiled to himself at that. A party, just the two of them, with as much alcohol as they could gather or, otherwise, miracle. He could practically hear the bell ringing over the shop door as Crowley threw it open, flipped the sign to “Closed”, announced his presence and his intentions to get well and truly pissed. 

“Yes, I think I'd like that,” he said, and then repeated, “I’d like that.” 

Crowley’s hair was entirely too close, entirely too tempting. Aziraphale could, if he wanted to, reach out and touch it, card his fingers through it, pull at the roots. He could, and he wanted to,  _ oh _ , he wanted to. He wanted to thread his fingers into that fire-red hair, pull back his head, expose those lifegiving lips and- 

“I don't understand all the fuss with sleigh bells, round this time of year,” Crowley mentioned casually. Aziraphale could feel the heat of his words, his breath on his white-clad arm. And Aziraphale had to beg himself,  _ stop thinking about his mouth!  _

“I-ah, yes. I rather agree.” 

“Like,” Crowley began, poised to begin a rant, “All other times of the year, it’s fine! But now, suddenly, when it’s all cold and snowing and-” 

“I wish I could kiss you,” Aziraphale muttered, startling even himself. 

Crowley stared, eyes wide, mouth hanging ever so slightly open. Aziraphale closed his eyes so he wouldn't have to see, wouldn’t have to see the way he'd destroyed this, destroyed everything. Any moment now. Any moment, they’d be coming to drag him back, to bring him, kicking and screaming, to God. They’d smite Crowley and they'd cast Aziraphale down and all for what?

“I, A-”

“Terribly sorry, dear boy,” Aziraphale hastened to amend (nothing could amend this, nothing could amend this), “I'd better be getting off. I’ve monopolized quite enough of your time, haven’t I?” 

“No, y-” 

He smiled, painfully, excruciatingly.  _ How lovely those bells are. _ “It's quite alright,” he reassured Crowley, not really looking, not daring to look at what he knew would only make it hurt more. He let the driver know that he was going to disembark. The carriage stopped obligingly, the bells with it. It was quiet then, far too quiet. 

“Aziraphale, you can’t,” Crowley finally managed out, “You can’t leave just like this.” 

Aziraphale sighed. It hurt, it hurt so much, and now all he could think of was the silence, the dreadful silence. No bells, no anything. Crowley looked as though he'd been stabbed, mouth open, open. _ That damned mouth _ . “I, I’m sure you'll be around,” he said, although his voice was more inward, his eyes were looking at the ground. He couldn't look, not for any amount of time, anything he did would hurt.  _ God, why does this hurt? He’s a demon, it shouldn't hurt, but it does. It hurts me so bad.  _

Aziraphale inhaled and let himself out, even as he shook terribly. He nearly fell to the ground disgracefully, and Crowley surged forward after him. Aziraphale found that Crowley was holding his hand. He stared, stared at the white pressed gently against black, the warmth of their clasped hands spreading to Aziraphale’s arm, his chest, his heart, up to his face.

“I’m not cold anymore,” Crowley said, simple and innocent enough to fool the outsider. Aziraphale, however, knew. He knew Crowley, his friend, his  _ dearest _ friend. He knew the strain in his voice, the lean into that vague lilt of his tongue. Crowley was stretched halfway out of the carriage, the driver waiting, oblivious. “Thank you.” 

Aziraphale looked up to meet the demon’s eyes, behind his dark glasses. Something in him cracked, broke, fell apart at his feet as he breathed, “Of course.”

“It's the sixth, right?” Crowley asked, hand still clasped around Aziraphale’s. They were blocking traffic, they were holding up the driver, but Aziraphale could hardly register.  _ Don’t let go. Don’t you dare let me go. I’m sorry, don’t let go of me.  _

“Er, yes.”

Crowley nodded, seeming regretful.  _ Don’t go, please don’t. Don’t say you'll go away again. Not another thirty years.  _ “I’ll be out of town, so,” he pressed Aziraphale’s hand, looked around to be sure that nobody was paying attention (no one was, why would anyone be paying attention?), and brought his hand quickly to his lips. “Merry Christmas, angel.” 

Aziraphale nodded, eyes round and in awe, as though She herself had come down to visit him. Perhaps She had, perhaps this was Her way of saying that this was good, this was right, this was, well, ineffable. He had to search to find his voice, and it was too quiet, far too quiet when he squeaked out, “Merry Christmas, Crowley.” 

The driver whipped the horse into motion, and the carriage lurched forward. Regretfully, still looking back, Crowley released Aziraphale from his grip. As Aziraphale watched the carriage recede into the distance, he could hear the sleigh bells. Ringing, ringing, until they were covered by the bustle of the busy London streets, until Crowley was far in the distance. 

He straightened his collar and set off in the opposite direction. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i'll catch up i said. itll be easy i said. ten days later...


	7. tender and mild

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> it's not often that crowley wakes before aziraphale. he uses his time wisely.

_ (day seven: silent night)  _

Crowley, much of the time, was the only one asleep. He'd only recently convinced Aziraphale to give it a shot, working off the pretext that it was better for him than trying to sleep with Aziraphale’s eyes trained on him. This was only persuasive enough some of the time; Aziraphale usually slept for about an hour or two before waking up and watching Crowley for the rest of the night. Despite how unnerving it could be, he appreciated the attempt. He also appreciated the way that Aziraphale came to bed every night, despite the fact that he wasn't really going to sleep. It was the thought that counted, really, in these cases.

(It was also the warmth of Aziraphale’s body against his. Yes, it was this too, it was his hand gently working tangles out of Crowley’s flamelicked hair while working circles into his side.) 

Of course, there were those times that Aziraphale was in bed with him because they've just made love. Crowley liked those times too, and he appreciated the softness of Aziraphale’s touch, the idle miracle that he used to clean them, to warm Crowley and tuck him in. He  _ greatly _ appreciated the feeling of Aziraphale's warmsmooth skin on him while he nods off. Aziraphale was better than any blanket, than any pillow or any miracle to keep him comfortable. Aziraphale was perfect, so perfect, especially for sleeping. He protected Crowley, kept him still. Demons are things of movement, of action. Of going here and tempting her then running off and cursing him then coming back and lurking, stalking,  _ doing.  _

Demons are meant to move. Crowley doesn’t want to. 

He doesn’t want to move because here he is, in Aziraphale’s arms, having found himself experiencing the singular pleasure of being awake before Aziraphale. This has never, to his recollection,  _ never _ happened before. Aziraphale was the one watching, the one protecting, the one taking care not to disturb Crowley’s peace. But now, well. Now he had his chance. 

Crowley begins with the hair, the way that its feathersoftness is pressed against the pillow, bright and blond-white against the gloomy, grey pillowcases. Crowley’s flat has always been just that: gloomy and grey. Aziraphale brings brightness to it, brings warmth to all the coldness of this flat. Gently, gently, Crowley extracts an arm from where it is pressed against Aziraphale’s bare chest (and yes, the hair is there too, white and wispy and tickling his skin) and drags his fingers through that so so soft hair. He brings his hand down and messes with the bits at the nape of his neck, twirling it around his fingers, long like icepicks. One finger traces back and forth idly at that wisp of chest hair, somewhere over Aziraphale’s heart. He kisses there, that spot that he has overlined, underlined, circled, marked. Then he pulls himself up and buries a kiss in Aziraphale’s hair, right next to his temple, where he could feel the pulse of Aziraphale’s heart. They are human things, hearts and kisses and everything that they hold. Aziraphale and Crowley are all too human. They’ve stolen the beating of their hearts, just because it seemed right. Crowley could feel Aziraphale’s too-human heartbeat here, if he strained hard enough. 

He moves then to the forehead, crinkled with the lines of worry, the worry of more than six thousand years. The lines are relaxed now, when Aziraphale is asleep, but Crowley takes his thumb and smooths them over anyway, easing them into the skin. They do not disappear. Crowley would never make them disappear, not when they’re a part of his angel. These lines, these little memories of worry, of surprise, they are a catalogue of every emotion Aziraphale has ever expressed. He’d never take that away. His thumb traces around the face and settles at Aziraphale’s cheek, where Crowley lets it rest as he kisses Aziraphale’s forehead too. 

Crowley is a thing of speed. All demons are. He is wired to go, go, go. Go here, go there, go too fast. But not tonight. Tonight is special, tonight he takes his time. Crowley is a thing of rush, of anxiety and of movement. Tonight he is measured, he is deliberate and certain and pausing to admire every microscopic bit of this beautiful angel. This angel that is his.  _ His. _ Crowley goes on to the nose. 

Crowley has spent quite an amount of time admiring Aziraphale’s nose. Like the rest of him, it is soft and easy, gentle upon his face. The downward slope, the small bump in the middle, a hill and a valley in this vast expanse of face. The way it flicks the tiniest bit upwards at the end, up to the skies, to the stars. (Not to heaven, not ever to heaven. Aziraphale was Crowley’s angel, not Heaven’s. He belonged to Crowley.) All of it was soft and silk. Crowley smiles, thinking of how Aziraphale looked down his nose at the Parisian executioner in the Bastille, thinking of the way he holds it high and proud in the air. A constant reminder that Aziraphale is a Principality of the Lord and was the Guardian of the Eastern gate of Eden, thank you very much, and he would be treated with all the respect due to him. Crowley smiles as he thinks of the way Aziraphale approaches a dish, new or familiar, nose first. Eyes closed, nose guiding him, seeking out the scent, letting him know  _ yes this is good,  _ or,  _ dear me, this is absolute rubbish _ . Crowley always knows how much Aziraphale is going to enjoy his meals by the way Aziraphale breathes in the scent. A kiss on the tip of that beloved nose, and another just because he can. 

Perhaps, though, he couldn’t, because Aziraphale stirs then, blue eyes opening slowly and piercing into Crowley, accusing him, questioning him with a quirk of the brow. Crowley says nothing, and instead answers Aziraphale with a kiss over each eyelid, those blue, blue, lifegiving eyes, full of their freshwater shine. He kisses the eyebrows too, those funny things, so adept at saying what Aziraphale didn’t. They even out under Crowley’s lips, unfurrowed and laying placidly. As Crowley pulls back to look at Aziraphale, they are saying,  _ Well, dear boy. This is unexpected, but I do enjoy it. Please, please go on. _

Even though Crowley may have infused his own meaning into the translation, he continues on. He continues on and places a kiss on those round cheeks, one for each of them. Aziraphale smiles and Crowley’s heart swells. 

He could continue on, could kiss every centimeter of his angel’s body and have infinite reasons for why he loves each part, why each part is beautiful, cherished, worshipped. He could do that. But Aziraphale slips a hand, tender and adoring, into the red-giant mass of Crowley’s hair, and uses it to bring Crowley’s lips to his. It is not a kiss of desperation or longing or heat. It is brief, it is mild, it is a prayer. Spilled from one mouth to the other, there for a moment and then gone again as they pull away (sealed with forever and ever amen). 

“Sleep, my darling,” Aziraphale says, and Crowley is uncertain whether he said it  _ here _ or  _ there _ or somewhere else entirely. Crowley is uncertain that he heard it at all, until the hand in his hair is bringing his face down against Aziraphale’s chest and he feels the rumble of,  again, “Go to sleep.” 

Crowley is a thing of movement. He is a snake, a serpent, slithering and wriggling and going from here to there and back to here again. He is a thing of speed, a thing of rush, a thing of hurry. 

He closes his eyes, listens to the thrum of a too-human heartbeat, and, yes, he goes to sleep. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i'll be damned if i don't finish this god-forsaken challenge before january is over. i will be damned.


	8. hark! the herald angels sing

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> aziraphale is a singer. all angels are.

_ (day eight: choir) _

Aziraphale is a singer. 

He has always been a singer, every angel is. In the Beginning, She created angels to be beings of fire, of eyes and mouths and a thousand spinning wheels. They were also created to obey, to listen dutifully and carry out Her will, Her (Crowley would cringe to hear it) Ineffable Plan. Angels, also, are inherently beings of worship and of divine devotion to the Almighty. What better way to worship than to sing Her praises, sing celestial harmonies in Her name? It was one of Heaven’s favorite joys, singing. 

Aziraphale has not sung worship in years. Centuries, actually, if he were to reflect on it, but he avoids reflecting upon his singing the same way one avoids eating their great aunt’s Thanksgiving casserole. He looks at it, ponders how bad it may actually be to try, maybe he takes a small bite. But he cannot stand anything beyond that. It hits an odd chord in his mind, scrapes a sort of dissonance, a sort of guilt. He  _ knows _ he should be singing: find a nice choir and make a place for himself for a few years, then move on to the next when suspicion hits. He  _ knows _ that he is a terrible angel for neglecting his duty to praise her for so long. And even though he  _ knows _ that he and Crowley are on their own side now (nothing of heaven nothing of hell nothing of terrible fear and indenturement), Aziraphale can’t help the guilt that roils in his belly. 

She must know he still loves Her, or else… or else he wouldn’t be permitted to go on like this. Something, something would have happened by now to punish him for his shortcomings, for everything that he hasn’t done. Everything he has done. But he feels most guilty about the singing. 

It’s even worse now, around Christmastime. It’s always worse, because there are choirs and carollers and children singing in the streets.  _ God and sinners reconciled, indeed.  _ Aziraphale can’t stand it. He can’t stand the voice, nagging him in the back of his head.  _ Sing, why don’t you just sing? It isn’t so hard, not when you sing for yourself. Why not sing for Her? _

_ With angelic hosts proclaim…  _

He’s walking along the streets of Mayfair, hand in hand with...well, who else might it be? (It’s always Crowley with him, always protecting him, keeping him company. It’s always Crowley.) They’ve been walking around all morning, looking for a new restaurant where they can try to get a decent breakfast. They’ve exhausted most of the SoHo options, and Crowley is saying that, unless they move elsewhere, they’ll never get a taste of something new. 

Aziraphale is telling Crowley that well, it doesn’t matter if they have something new, they don’t need it, when they turn a corner, and almost slam directly into a family standing in the middle of the street. 

_ Glory to the newborn king…  _

Crowley tugs Aziraphale’s arm to pull him away from the (very offended) parents of three rambunctious children, but Aziraphale hardly notices. He’s become engrossed in the crowd, noticed that they’re gathered at the steps of a church. At the top of the staircase, up up up above the people, a children’s choir is singing. 

_ Christ by highest heav’n adored…  _

“Really, angel, you’re stopping for this?” Crowley asks, bouncing from foot to foot the barest bit. 

Aziraphale listens to the choir more than he listens to Crowley. Their young voices, praising something they don’t understand, something that had almost killed them all just four short months ago. But the children didn’t know, they only sing (and sing and sing and sing).

“Are you alright, angel?” Crowley asks again, his grip tightening on Aziraphale’s hand as he begins to shift around more, drawing the attention of the people around him. 

Aziraphale nods, still watching the choir sing. “I’m quite alright, dear. I’d just like to listen a bit longer.” 

_ Pleased as man with men to dwell… _

He should be singing. He should find a nice little choir, settle there, sing the praises of the Almighty. He should do what Gabriel or Michael or any other angel would do, were they on Earth with him. He  _ should.  _

But these children were happy to sing. They were brilliant, glowing, filling the air with love. And the people around, listening, they were exuding love too. There was love all around him, Aziraphale was now realizing, and not just Crowley’s. How long had he spent shying away from singing, keeping his mouth closed and keeping the tune within? And all for what? This was all so joyful, how could he have turned it away? 

“Angel, you want to hear a choir, I’ll find a choir. Promise, on the radio or the T.V. or, fucking  _ somewhere.  _ Can we go? Please?” 

Only then does Aziraphale break from his trance, and turn in fright to Crowley, answering in haste, “Oh! My dear, I’m so sorry,” he announced, “I didn’t realize-” 

“Aziraphale, pleassse apologize later, let’s get on before I need to put my feet in the ice buckets again,” Crowley begged, and, with one parting glance, Aziraphale went with him. 

_ Hark! The herald angels sing… _

“Did you know,” Aziraphale began as they passed the church, the children’s voices left echoing behind them, “That I used to be a singer?” 

Crowley scoffed, “We all were, angel. Before, that is.” 

“Well, yes, but, I used to sing proper. The human way, in a choir.” 

“Hmm,” Crowley said walking hesitantly on his still tender feet. 

Aziraphale took no notice of his lacking enthusiasm, “I was bass section leader for a time. Quite good, if I do say so myself. But, well, I stopped. Around the time that I started to, well. The Arrangement.” 

“I’ve never heard you sing,” Crowley comments, stopping to allow a car drive across the crosswalk. 

“Yes, I, I’ve been too, well. I've just not enjoyed it. We’re meant to sing to praise the Almighty and…all that. It’s been a while.” 

“I’d like to hear. If you ever want,” Crowley said, and then, as they come upon a bakery they’ve not been to before. “This place seems interesting.” 

Aziraphale nods. Yes, if he ever wants. 

_ Hark! The herald angels sing. _

  
  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i'm going to finish this. i'm going to finish this. i'm going to finish this. i'm going to f


	9. chestnuts roasting on an open fire

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> crowley contemplates scents, home, and messy bookshops. 
> 
> oh, and he also roasts some chestnuts.

_ (day nine: chestnuts)  _

Quite honestly, Crowley always finds roasted chestnuts to be a bit of a letdown. For all the carols sung in their glory, for all the stores selling them and advertisements depicting them and all the sicksweet holiday nostalgia about them, they’re quite underwhelming. Never quite as crunchy as he hopes. Never quite so sweet as he expects. Never actually any good. But he and Aziraphale had picked up a bag from a market stall while they were traipsing around London the day before and, well, he wasn’t just going to leave them there. 

There’s a kitchen in the flat above the humbly fabled A. Z. Fell & Co., although it’s so overrun with clutter that Crowley spent more than an hour neatening it while Aziraphale was downstairs running the shop. (It was, for once, open. Aziraphale, in the holiday spirit, was actually letting some people think they might be allowed to leave with a book.) Aziraphale had come upstairs to check, about halfway through the ordeal, when Crowley was still looking desperately through stacks of dusty books in order to find the oven.

“I- O- Crowley, what on Earth are you doing?” He demanded, paused at the doorway with a hand pressed over his chest, his eyes wide in alarm. 

“Got bored,” Crowley justified, placing yet  _ another _ volume of  _ Sherlock Holmes _ in the “D” stack. “Figured I might as well neaten this place up a bit, if I’m going to-” He paused, cut himself off and started once more, “If we’re going to be spending more time here.” 

Aziraphale stepped forward, slowly, as if he were moving through the sea, gazing around himself in abject terror. “But, how am I meant to-” 

“I’m grouping them alphabetically, angel,” Crowley reassured, still for the moment. He leaned forward, folding his arms so that his elbows rested on a copy of  _ Sanditon _ and a collection of Lord Byron poems. Both looked as though they hadn’t been touched since they were penned. “The kitchen needs to be functional somehow.” 

“It  _ is _ functioning,” Aziraphale argued defensively. He said, quieter, though Crowley could hear it, “As a library.” 

Crowley rolled his eyes. “Right, angel. Y’know what?” He straightened and walked over to Aziraphale, took him by the elbows. “You really ought to get back downstairs before somebody is tempted into running off with a book.” 

Even as he was being eased out of the doorway, Aziraphale protested, “But- my-” 

“I’ll take care of them, promise,” Crowley said, and then Aziraphale was out the door, begrudgingly glaring at Crowley as he closed it. 

Now, several hours (or potentially centuries) later, with the oven liberated from its leather-bound and paper-scented prison, Crowley finally removes the tray of chestnuts from the oven. He’d done it properly, the human way, without a single miracle inside to dull the taste. And, even though he knows that they’ll never taste as good as he expects them to, he’s proud of himself for managing so splendidly on his own. He was more productive here, more fitting, more… well, at home. 

He took pride in the way that, under the warmsweet chestnut scent, when he flicked his tongue out for a fuller breath, he couldn’t tell where the scent of Aziraphale ended and the scent of himself began. Cedarwood. Salt. Brimstone. Water. That scent, that everywhere scent that would follow him until the end of eternity, the green smell of Eden. All of that had become one, all of that, and chestnut too, united under this roof, in this library-turned-kitchen. It is impossible to tell where Aziraphale is one and Crowley is the other. 

With a vague smile, he transfers the chestnuts to a bowl and brings them downstairs. 

“Still selling?” He asks, as he comes down the stairs to see Aziraphale. 

“Not a single book,” comes Aziraphale’s cheerful reply. Only a few of the would-be customers look up, none of them comment. “I take it you’ve ruined my flat?” 

“Oh,” Crowley says, “It’s an absolute disaster up there. You should see what I’ve done to the place.” 

“Incorrigible demon,” Aziraphale mutters, and Crowley has just now realized that his glasses aren’t on and the stares are lingering. He eyes a teenage girl who won't look away and hisses threateningly. 

Aziraphale watches disdainfully before he approaches Crowley, still fixed to the stairs, and asks, “What have you there, my dear?” 

“Er,” and Crowley is now increasingly uncomfortable, “Chestnuts. Roasted. Mind holding this for a second?” 

“Not at all. I thought you didn’t like chestnuts.” 

Crowley reaches into his pocket and, miraculously, he has a spare pair of sunglasses in his jacket. “I don't. But, well, it is the holiday season. Got them yesterday, remember?” 

“I recall.” He passes the bowl back to Crowley’s waiting hands. “They smell divine.” 

There’s only a few people in the bookshop, milling about, keeping to themselves. “Want to come upstairs, angel?” 

Aziraphale ponders, “Not...not just yet. I want to keep up the illusion of a real business a bit longer. You can stay down here, though.” 

“I wouldn't be a bother?” 

“You’re the only bother I want, my dear. I believe i have a nutcracker down here, too.” 

And so Aziraphale retrieves the (practical, not decorative) nutcracker, and Crowley stays downstairs, sits in Aziraphale’s desk chair and, yes, he eats the chestnuts. They are as bland and disappointing as ever, still not living up to all he had hoped they would be in his mind. 

The customers don’t bother Aziraphale, not when he’s standing next to Crowley and eating warm chestnuts, and laughing out loud every time Crowley does something meant to be obnoxious. They don’t notice how Crowley flicks his tongue out to smell the scent of chestnut and of Aziraphale and of himself.  _ This scent, this smell of us. Of a life. My life is yours.  _

Yes, the chestnuts are as tasteless and underwhelming as always.

But, just as every time he has shared chestnuts with Aziraphale, just as  every single meal that they have shared together,  Crowley enjoys it. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i'm catching up see i'm doing it look at me catching up


	10. how do you measure its worth?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> someday, aziraphale will get two rings. one for himself, one for crowley. yes, someday.
> 
> aka crowley and aziraphale do a bit of stargazing

_(day ten: gold and silver)_

Aziraphale has a ring of gold. Gold angel wings, to be precise, on a gold band. The wings curl around his pinkie finger protectively cradling it, tender, safe. He’s worn it for about as long as he can remember, the only sign of heaven that he still permits on this form. He is nearly human, he is earthly, but he holds onto this. Gold. Wings. A bit of glory, a bit of heaven. A bit of God and the angels and everything he had left behind. Aziraphale still has some sort of love for heaven, for the things of the sky. He still loves the Almighty, so he could never completely curse anything. 

He still has his ring. Somehow, the wings feel like protection. 

Aziraphale’s wings have protected another. Just like the way this winged ring protects his finger. He has protected many people with his wings, but the first time was in Eden. In Eden, on the first wall, in the first rain that the good planet Earth had seen. It was the first of the tears to have fallen from the sky, the first time God had wept for Her children. Adam and Eve had been sent out of the Garden to fend for themselves, and the Almighty wept for them. Aziraphale had company in that first rain as he watched the two sorry humans walk away, beginning the harsh journey through the desert to some kind of safety. The sky opened, the tears and rain had poured out as one, and without thinking, Aziraphale had protected his companion. 

They were not even sure if this was something that one was meant to be protected _from_ , but Aziraphale offered what he could, nonetheless. A single wing, a gesture of kindness, an offering of peace between these two unlikely companions. They should have been enemies. Instead, Aziraphale could picture this strange being as his friend. Perhaps his first friend ever. 

Crowley. 

_Crowley._

Aziraphale has a ring of gold. He’d be lying to say that he does not want another ring. Another ring of gold, yes, in the shape of a snake. And another like his: gold formed in the shape of his wings. Each would be sized perfectly to fit on two distinct ring fingers. One for himself. One for Crowley. From this gold they would send a sign. Protection, love, eternity. 

He wants to give Crowley gold and silver and any beautiful thing that he could ever want. But Crowley wants for nothing. Crowley has never _wanted_ material things. No, not like Aziraphale, an odd angel with an odd fondness for collecting. Crowley has never asked anything of Aziraphale but his time. He lauds Aziraphale in presents and asks only for Aziraphale himself in return. Only that they be in each other’s company. Perhaps only that they have nights like this, seated on the roof of a cottage in some far-away village in the country. It doesn't matter whose house or where exactly, all that matters is that they found it, and for now, this roof is their own. Crowley doesn’t even ask that Aziraphale speak. Only that he should be here, with Crowley, thinking of how he should very much like to live in a cottage like this. Thinking of how the chill of December will become the cool breeze of July. Listening to Crowley talk about each star as if he personally had made them.

(Aziraphale knows, in fact, that Crowley crafted each star. He knows. He does not say.) 

A ring. Or, no, maybe not a ring. Maybe a star, bright and glittering, plucked directly from the night sky. The sky that Crowley spends lifetimes staring at, contemplating, admiring. Always staring at the sky and its pinpricks of silver with golden eyes, asking for more. The silver shines through Crowley’s hair, onto his skin, and is reflected back in his glasses. Crowley stares at the stars, light from billions of light years away. They were alive when each star was born. They had seen each one birthed from the darkness, had marveled at the light-bringers, had envied them. Crowley stares at the stars, so he does not see that Aziraphale is staring at him. 

Aziraphale wonders if Crowley is thinking of heaven. He wonders if Crowley looks that those stars and remembers who he was, an eternity and forever ago. He wonders if that quiet contemplation is in fact melancholy remembrance. He knows all of Crowley, the rise and the fall of him. He can see when Crowley is stuck back in the fall. The Fall, where he’d lost his holiness, his Grace. 

Crowley has never said that he misses being an angel. Crowley never talks about the pain of being cast down from the very stars he had created with his own hands. Those hands must have been soft then, hanging silver stars like strings of white Christmas lights, occasionally having to go through and twist and tap and see which one made the whole string go out. Those fingers must have been delicate, stained with the glowing of silver stardust. His irises must have been pure gold. Not the murky, muted gold of a snake's eyes, but celestial. Not just any angel is selected to be a maker of light.

Aziraphale doesn’t dwell. It does not matter what Crowley had been. He is beautiful now. He is glowing red and passionately free now. Aziraphale loves him now. 

“That one there is Andromeda,” Crowley says, pointing out a formation of three particularly bright stars. “Named after another one of those people the Greeks loved so much. Not very creative when it comes to the name, though. S’like the humans name everything in the sky after some Greek god or another.” 

“Andromeda was Cepheus’ daughter, no?” Aziraphale asks. He doesn’t actually need to ask; he knows every figure of every religion under the Sun, but he frames it as a question anyway. 

“Was she, now?” Crowley asks, genuinely. Crowley never paid much attention to any religion. He figured it didn’t matter. After all, he knew the Almighty Herself. 

“Yes,” Aziraphale goes on, “A princess known for her beauty.”

“Huh. Guess they named it well.” 

Aziraphale nods. He can tell Crowley’s smile is just a little wider than before. _How long did she take you to create? Are you proud of her? Or was she just another formation? No, no. You love them all._ Silver, yes, that glorious blue-silver light. He leans against Crowley’s shoulder. 

Crowley glances down towards Aziraphale and pulls him closer, wrapping both arms around him protectively. There is nothing of danger here, nothing to threaten them on their little roof in their corner of the world. Still, Aziraphale feels a sort of comfort, being near to Crowley. He always has. 

“You should take off your glasses, my dear,” Aziraphale says, “It can’t be right to look at such a beautiful sky with that black tint.” 

Crowley tenses slightly. “And if I drop them? I like this pair, angel. I’ve kept these intact for nearly two weeks.” 

“You won’t.” 

Crowley can’t say no to Aziraphale. He pulls them off, puts them in his pocket, and looks at Aziraphale. “Better?” 

There were those eyes, far from celestial but gold as anything. Gold as the ring Aziraphale wears, as the rings he wants to get them, someday, when it won’t be “too fast”. Oh, how he loved those eyes. The silver stars reflect back at him. Gold and silver. Silver and gold. Someday, Aziraphale will get Crowley a ring. Someday.

For now, he gives him his time, a roof in the South Downs, and his heart, shining brighter than any star in the familiar night sky. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> coronavirus panic is wreaking havoc on this nation so i shall use my time off from school to finish what i never could (this damnable advent calendar challenge).


	11. o christmas tree

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> crowley takes aziraphale shopping for a christmas tree. it is cold.

_ (day eleven: pine)  _

Cold. All that Crowley can register right now is cold, cold, cold. Nothing else is holding his focus, all he can think of is the cold. Not the bustling crowd. Not the Christmas music emanating from somewhere unseen. Not even the feeling of Aziraphale’s hand, wide and familiar, tucked into the bend of Crowley’s arm. It's just so, so cold. 

So  _ fucking _ cold. 

“Is there any way we could hurry this up, angel?” Crowley asks, as they pause in front of yet another tree, identical to all the rest. Crowley has never been a fan of Christmas trees. These trees with their overwhelming pine scent, their sap, and the needles they leave all over the floor. He couldn’t even yell at them to stop the shedding. Something about it feels simply wrong to Crowley, like keeping a corpse in your living room. The ornaments and brightly colored lights are just another offense. Crowley thinks it's not only disgusting, but disrespectful, almost. And yet here he is, walking through rows upon rows of the blessed things, freezing to death as Aziraphale takes his sweet time examining each one. Crowley shouldn't be putting up with this. He's stronger, better than that. Still-

Well, Crowley has a weak spot. The entire world probably knows by now. 

“This is the most important decision I make all year, Crowley. It requires patience.” 

Crowley decides not to mention that maybe the most important decision Aziraphale made this year was not, in fact, his Christmas tree. He also refrains from mentioning that Aziraphale had made many decisions this year, many important ones, decisions that had helped to prevent Armageddon and prolong their lives (whether that had been knowingly or not). He begins to pull away, “Right. I’m gonna go wait in the Bentley-- ” 

“Crowley!” Aziraphale protests, yanking Crowley back to his side. 

The demon responds with a sound akin to, “hu-ngk!”

“I’m not making this decision without you,” he insists. He continues pulling Crowley along with him, taking no notice of how Crowley is shivering out of his skin. “This is our first official Christmas together, and I intend to do it the right way.” 

“What right way?” Crowley groans, even as he allows Aziraphale to pull him along to the next tree. “We’re not human, angel. We can do this however we like. There is no ‘right way’.” 

“Well,” Aziraphale huffs, “This is the way I’d like to do it. And I’d like for it to be with your support.” 

Crowley sighs, if the broken-apart breath that exits him can be called a sigh. “Okay then. Just, please. A little faster. I’m freezing halfway to dea- uh, discorporation.” 

Aziraphale rolls his eyes and looks up to the heavens. It's a habit of his that, while it doesn't _offend_ Crowley, bristles him just the slightest bit. He could definitely do without it.  _ No need to bring Her into it _ . “Oh, will you come over here..” 

Aziraphale pulls Crowley in front of him and presses a hand to his chest, eyes closed and whispering something that Crowley can’t hear. He stands there awkwardly for a moment, and then his knees buckle as warmth flows through his body, thawing the bones, soothing the aches. Crowley almost collapses with the sudden intensity of it, and he lurches forward onto Aziraphale with a gasp. The shock of heat was immediate, too harsh for him to simply adapt. His human corporation, always just this side of chilly, this side of uncomfortable, is overwhelmed with warmth, angelic warmth. 

“ _ Fuck! _ ” He hisses, eyes wide and serpentine. A family standing nearby ushers their small children away. 

“My goodness, Crowley,” Aziraphale marvels, “I do think that was rather uncalled for.” 

"Well I'm _ssssssorry_ that I'm a sssssssnake," Crowley hisses, still trying to shake himself back into reality, "Next time I'm dissssscorporated, I'll ask to be warm-blooded."

"No need to speak like that," Aziraphale grumbles, as though Crowley can't hear him. 

"Let'ssss jusssst get thisss tree," Crowley sighs, taking Aziraphale's hand in his own. Crowley isn't sure how much more of this he can handle; he wants only to be done and be gone. Long gone, on the road back home. Or. Back to the bookshop. Crowley kicks himself mentally. It's Aziraphale's home, not his. (Although Crowley is just one drunken night and one inebriated decision away from moving in for good. Or moving out to the country. Whatever Aziraphale would prefer.) 

“Yes, let's.” Aziraphale moves to continue on, but then pauses in his tracks. "What would you say to a drink or five when we get back?" He asks, innocent, "I'm fairly certain I've a few good vintages in the shop and, well. Waste not, and all." 

Crowley gulps deeply. He's in trouble, he's in so much trouble. 

Except he isn't. What does he have to fear now? It's not like he's still pining, still burying his feelings for Aziraphale, still pretending that demons can't love. Demons can. They just won't. Crowley is the exception, and Aziraphale knows, and Aziraphale loves him back. So what is Crowley still afraid of? Going too fast? Having misjudged? Maybe Aziraphale's affections truly aren't what he says they are. Maybe it's a ploy. Maybe, maybe, maybe. 

Aziraphale is looking at Crowley, and he expects an answer. Those blue, blue eyes. They are grateful, Crowley sees now, and he realizes that Aziraphale is trying to thank him. To think he was worried! No, there's no mistaking it. Aziraphale loves Crowley. Crowley repeats it to himself a few times, just as a reminder. _He loves me. He loves me. He loves me._

"Sounds great, angel. All the more reason to hurry up here, now." 

"Oh, you-" Aziraphale cuts himself off. "Why, this one is delightful!” Aziraphale exclaims, looking up to the tree in front of them. “A bit big perhaps but, well, I think we can make it work.” 

Crowley almost complains that it's exactly the same as all of the other trees they've been looking at, but he holds himself back. A comment like that could keep them here longer, and now he has the taste of Aziraphale's wine-drunk tongue to look forward to. So he says instead, “I don’t know, angel. Might take a miracle to get it in the front door. I don’t think you have room anywhere in that shop.” 

Aziraphale smirks, in the knowing way that Aziraphale always smirks. Crowley finds comfort in it. “Luckily for us, we have miracles to spare.” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i've no clue why i feel obligated to include notes at the end of every chapter, but it's just as well. this one was a bit of a tough write, but im excited for the next prompt!


	12. i'll give it to someone special

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> aziraphale seeks out some carolers, and he and crowley do some caroling, too. in their own way (as with all things)

_ (day 12: caroling) _

__

Aziraphale wasn’t expecting to hear the ringing bell that signaled the opening of the bookshop door, but he probably should have. Especially considering the fact that he had forgotten to turn the sign on the door. 

With his back turned to the door, he said, “I’m awfully sorry, but I was just about to close up shop.” He picked up a scarf from his desk, fussing with it hurriedly. “You’ll have to come back another time.” 

Aziraphale turned to the doorway, and was greeted with Crowley’s confident lean and smug smile.“Oh, come on, angel, I’ve only just gotten here.” 

Aziraphale sighed fondly, a smile spreading across his face as he walked up to Crowley, pressing a quick kiss to his cheek. “I’m so sorry, darling,” he began. Crowley interrupted him by grabbing his scarf and wrapping it around his neck. “I’m just in such a rush and I was quite ready to miracle the door locked...Could you pass me my coat, dear?” 

Crowley complied, asking, “And why are we rushing, again?” 

“Didn’t I tell you?” 

“Tell me what, angel?” 

Understanding finally dawned on Aziraphale, and he shook his head, disappointed with himself. “The Christmas Carol service. I meant to tell you that I’d be going but-”

“Guess I’ll just have to go with you, then,” Crowley offered, shrugging. 

Aziraphale still wasn’t soothed. “My dear, I wish you could, but…”

“It’s consecrated ground, isn’t it?” 

Aziraphale sighed and clasped two of Crowley’s hands in one of his own. “Really, love, I would have told you if I’d known, but-” 

“Angel,” Crowley sighed, “It’s alright.” 

“Still, I’d hate to leave you all alone.” 

“Alllright, how about this.” A hand went to Aziraphale’s shoulder. “How about I drop you off there and, when it’s all done, we can go get some dinner.” 

Of course Crowley would find a way to accommodate them both. He always had a way of looking out for Aziraphale, just as Aziraphale tried to take care of him. 

He smiled. “Well, I’ll say that I’m thoroughly tempted. We’ll have to rush though, the service begins at six and we’ve already passed a quarter to’.” 

The way that the light caught Crowley’s glasses, Aziraphale could just barely see through to his eyes. However, he didn’t need to look in order to sense the mischievous glint in those amber-golden eyes.

“Say no more, angel.” 

________

“Yes, our rehearsals are each Wednesday from 5:00 to 6:30. We’d be glad to have you join us in the new year,” the choir director spoke to Aziraphale, standing in the vestibule as the crowds shuffled out, pleasantly reminiscing on the performance. 

Aziraphale smiled, “Yes, well, I’ve been considering. I think I’d enjoy getting back into the performance lifestyle, as it were.” 

“Then I look forward to seeing you next month, Mr. Fell,” he said with a grin, shaking Aziraphale’s hand cordially. 

They parted, and Aziraphale saw the Bentley parked across the street from the church, Crowley standing on the sidewalk next to it. 

This would be a good start to the new year; a year where neither of them were under any obligation to a “side” other than their own. He supposed that he’d need some form of a hobby, now that he wouldn’t be spending hours on end filing meaningless paperwork and explaining away minor miracles. It’d be a nice change of pace. And, besides, he wouldn’t want to bore Crowley. This time after Armageddon had been wonderful, of course, but it was still fresh. Still all too new. In time, they’d start grating on each other’s nerves, as they always do, and it would be nice to give Crowley a reprieve every now and again. 

“You look happy, angel,” Crowley greeted Aziraphale, opening the passenger door for him. Aziraphale acknowledged him with a nod of his head and a grin. 

“It was a lovely service, dearest. I do wish you could’ve come with me.” 

Crowley shook his head, sliding into the driver’s seat. “That’s not really my speed anyway, angel. I probably just would have slept through it.” 

They pulled away down the street at a positively ungodly speed. 

“True. Although I do love your company.” 

Crowley inhaled sharply, and made some odd sound deep in his throat. 

Aziraphale turned his head, curiosity piqued. “And what does that mean?” 

“Hm? What?” 

“That sound that you just made, dear. Should I have held my tongue?” 

Crowley shook his head before reassuring Aziraphale, “No, not at all, angel. I’m just,” he 

lowered his voice, “Not used to hearing it, is all.” 

“Remind me to tell you more often, then,” Aziraphale chuckled, turning his head to spy

the expression on Crowley’s face. He wished he could memorize it, frame that face so that it would remain unchanged in his memory, perfect as this moment. Perhaps time wouldn’t age them in the way that it would a human, but it still warped memories, changed them and erased them. He wished that they could keep this exactly as it was. 

Then again, they were on their own side now. They’d have infinite moments. They had an entire life ahead of them now, a life on their side. 

“So, where’s dinner?” Aziraphale asked, watching as Crowley drummed his fingers on the steering wheel. 

He reached over to turn on the radio. “Well, I was thinking we could try to go to that Chinese place you liked. The one that opened last month, remember?” 

“Oh, how could I forget!” Aziraphale exclaimed. He had taken Crowley there for the grand opening, insisting that they couldn’t go to the Ritz  _ every _ weekend and he was sure that Crowley would love it. “Did you make a reservation?” 

He shrugged. “I could, but we don’t really need to, do we?” 

Caught between disapproval and delight, Aziraphale contented himself to smile and sat back, his hands folded neatly in his lap. That seemed to be the end of that conversation, and that was alright. They sat quietly again until Crowley sped through an intersection, swearing as the other cars blared their horns at him. Aziraphale’s hands shot up to his chest, as though he could stifle the sudden racing of his heart. 

“Crowley! Was that  _ really  _ necessary?” 

“Listen, angel, do you want dinner at a decent time or not?” 

“Not at the cost of our corporations,” he panted out, his breathing heavier than was strictly necessary.

As if taking any opportunity to escape this conversation, Crowley suddenly commented,

“I don’t know why these channels all start playing Christmas carols as soon as December hits.” 

Although he was unsurprised by this, Aziraphale took the bait. “I don’t know, I think that most of them are rather jolly.” 

“Did you honestly just say-” Crowley stopped himself, “You know what, I should have expected that.”

“And what’s wrong with saying that Christmas songs are jolly?” 

Crowley sniggered. “What should I critique first, the word or the songs?” 

“Oh, really,” he sighed, “Neither deserve critique as harsh as yours.” 

“They all sound the  _ same _ , angel. They’re all ‘Oi, let’s sing about all the money we’re 

going to waste on presents and decorations and how much fun we’ll have’ with the exact same four chords over and over.”

Aziraphale raised his eyebrows. “Well, then, Ebenezer.” 

He held back a laugh as Crowley lowered his sunglasses just to turn to him and warn, “Don’t get me started on that stupid story, angel, I swear I’ll be going for the rest of the night.”

“Trust me, darling, I  _ know _ . Still, there must be some songs that you enjoy.” 

“Oh, sure, sure, you know the one that’s completely silent for four minutes?” 

Aziraphale rolled his eyes, but his heart swelled with fondness. “Come on, Crowley. What about this one? It should be modern enough for your tastes.” 

Crowley stopped complaining for a grand total of three seconds before he said, “Really, angel? ‘Wham!’?” 

“I could have sworn you played a song by this fellow for me once,” Aziraphale defended himself, “Besides, I don’t think it’s too shabby.” And then, for the sole purpose of antagonizing him further, Aziraphale began to hum along. 

“You don’t even know the words?” Crowley asked, and Aziraphale could have sworn that he was genuinely offended. 

“You  _ do  _ like it!” Aziraphale shouted, so abrupt that the car swerved. 

Crowley let his head fall back as he groaned aloud. “Fine, I like it. But that doesn’t change the fact that it’s utter shit.” 

“Sing it with me then,” Aziraphale insisted, just on the edge of teasing, “That way I’ll know the words next time it comes on.”

He knew that he was pushing his luck, but he also knew Crowley. And he knew that if he asked him for anything, Crowley would comply. So, hesitant and off-key, Crowley jumped in,  _ “Now I know what a fool I’ve been.”  _

Aziraphale grinned devilishly, quite satisfied with this situation. He joined in at the chorus, as to ease Crowley’s humiliation, “ _ Last Christmas, I gave you my heart...” _

“I can’t believe you roped me into this,” Crowley grumbled, but he was smiling, and he kept singing as soon as he stopped talking. 

It was a new life, this day. And each day that was to come would be a new life, and maybe Aziraphale’s fears would come true. Still, he was singing along to Christmas carols with Crowley, on their way to dinner. Things were new, but still the same as they’d ever been. There was, Aziraphale knew, a certainty in that, at least. So they sang, and they sped down the road, all the way to their vacant table. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> guess who's baaaack? after today and tomorrow, i've got something a little *special* planned until christmas. anyway, i hope you all are well, and happy hanukkah to those of you that celebrate it!


	13. wrapping gifts is easy, bud

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> sentient bentley let's gooooo

The Bentley had been through her fair share of adventures with Crowley. Bombed churches, heartfelt rejections, hell, she’d driven through a wall of fire with him.  _ That _ was commitment. That was determination. He’d held her together, too, and she’d come right back at the end of it. Crowley had dragged her through all sorts of wildly unsuitable situations. Somehow, this day was becoming the most tedious of them all.

At least when they were together during the apocalypse, plowing through flames, both within an inch of their lives, it was exciting. Today was just, dull. She’d been driving for, oh, maybe four hours now. They were going all over London, stopping only occasionally so that Crowley could go into a store and come back emptyhanded. Four hours. And it didn’t appear that the journey would be over anytime soon. 

Worse than that, he was playing the Christmas station. The Bentley could appreciate a good rendition of “Blue Christmas” or “Silent Night” as well as the next car, but she didn’t see what was so wrong with some good old Queen. Whatever happened to that? 

That’s the thing about these old cars. If you keep them around long enough, they take on a life of their own. They learn, they adapt to their owner’s tastes. Some, such as the Bentley, developed  _ a very strong opinion _ on the actions of the humans that controlled them. If she could speak in any language other than appropriately-timed music or disconcerting engine sounds, she would be telling Crowley off right now. This was a serious waste of her time. And her mileage.

Crowley came out of yet another store. Some sort of Mom-and-Pop bakery by the looks of it. The third one of the day. He swore out loud as he got in, slamming her door behind him. 

Well, ouch. That was rude. 

“I’m never going to find anything for this bastard, am I?” He grumbled, and  _ ohhhh _ . That’s what this is about. It figures that the one day they go out and don’t immediately go to A.Z. Fell & Co., they’re out on a wild goose chase for Aziraphale. The Bentley liked him. Unlike Crowley, he knew how to respect a car. Not that Crowley didn’t do a good job of taking care of her, but well. At least  _ someone  _ treated her like a person. Er, priceless vintage car. The lines were a bit blurry. 

It didn’t make this drive make any more sense, though. Crowley had known Aziraphale for, well, as long as the Bentley could remember. She remembered the day that Crowley had introduced them, the first time they went to the Ritz, the days that they spent working for the family. Crowley and Aziraphale had known each other for at least a lifetime and a half, by her estimates. He should have no problem whatsoever picking something out. He picked up trinkets and pastries for Aziraphale all the time, what was one more gift? Why did today have to be so dreadfully boring? 

Crowley had only been on the road for a few minutes when he pulled up to another curb and turned her engine off. She watched as he stormed inside whichever store they were next to now. Seeing as the spirituality of cars is a highly contested subject, there really was no way to know if a car can pray. However, she made her best attempt to pray that this would be over soon.. The cold was doing a number on her. 

It must be odd, being obligated to get things for people. It didn’t make much sense to her, but, then again. Car. Even so, there was no reason for this to be so difficult, and, if it was this difficult, was it even worth it? All she ever needed to do to earn Crowley’s good opinion was take him from Point A to Point B and remain compliantly driveable. He and Aziraphale spent plenty of time together. Maybe her opinion was foolish, maybe she was just an old-fashioned vehicle, but this all seemed highly unnecessary.

Well, she might as well rest while she had the chance. There was no telling how long the next stretch would be, or how badly Crowley would abuse her speedometer. He always drove faster when he was upset. 

Perhaps half an hour or so had passed when she spied him coming back out of the store, this time with a bag in his hand. Oh,  _ finally _ . This had to be it. Maybe now he’d go do something exciting, maybe she’d get to see a long country road or, anything else, really. 

He popped her trunk and tossed the bag inside. Whatever he had bought, it was light. And it took up most of the length of her trunk. That’s odd, but, hey. She wasn’t one to question these human (or, whatever Crowley was, she still wasn’t completely sure) traditions. At least the worst part was over. 

“Brilliant,” he said, slamming her driver’s side door once more, “All that, and the only thing I’ve found is a fucking tube of wrapping paper.” 

And then, to the Bentley’s great confusion, Crowley dropped his forehead to the steering wheel, and just sat there. That was...uncommon. If she were a human, she supposed the proper response would be to reach out, to comfort him. Maybe pat his arm or offer some words of encouragement. But, well, there’s not much a car can do besides drive and observe. So she watched. She watched as Crowley’s shoulders sagged to the ground, his fingers with a white-knuckled grip on the steering wheel. 

It was only a moment before he straightened himself up again and started her once more. This time, he turned back the way he came, and he turned up the music on the radio. 

The Bentley wasn’t human. She was about as far from human as an object can be. But, as far as vintage cars go, she had seen a lot in her day. If any car ever had anything close to a soul, it was her. And maybe she did, because she was pretty sure that, right then, she understood exactly what Crowley was feeling. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> so! starting tomorrow, i'm going to be doing one chapter a day until christmas. yes, that is correct, twelve days of christmas. also, i've forced my partner (a fellow good omens fan and the aziraphale to my crowley) to create a drawing of the husbands to go with each day! hopefully we'll manage to keep it up all the way until christmas, and hopefully you'll join us for the ride!
> 
> here is my twitter so you can force me to write and/or study for finals: https://twitter.com/yeehaw_fellas  
> stay safe, stay healthy, stay happy!


	14. spike the eggnog

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> exactly as it says.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> first day of the 12 Days of Ineffable Christmas y'all! featuring lovely artwork from my partner at the end of the chapter :)

_ (day 14: eggnog) _

“I never  _ got _ eggnog, you know what I mean?” Crowley asked, examining the bottle in his hands. Aziraphale had brought it over, naturally, and he honestly wasn’t quite sure what to do with it. He’d never really been a fan; never understood the importance of this drink to Christmas tradition. 

And he didn’t really understand why Aziraphale had brought it, either. Well, he knew, of course, that Aziraphale loved all these commercialized holiday traditions. It figured that he’d like this as well, but why he brought it to Crowley’s flat? Well, that was a bit of a mystery. 

“I’m quite sure I don’t,” Aziraphale answered, impatiently standing across the counter from Crowley. 

He shrugged. “Well, what even is it, for one? And why the heaven is it called ‘eggnog’? That’s got to be one of the most unappetizing names for a drink that I have ever heard.” 

Aziraphale, already toying with an empty glass, responded with an unimpassioned, “Hmm. You do know it’s made with eggs, right, dear?” 

He had, in fact, not known. And a part of him was certain that Aziraphale had completely made that part up. “That makes even less sense, angel. Why would they put eggs in a drink?”

“It’s for the texture, I suppose. I’ve never looked into it much myself.” 

Crowley continued to study the bottle suspiciously. He wasn’t fully convinced that this was actually drinkable, or worth drinking. Things as overhyped as eggnog rarely were. Besides, it sounded disgusting. He twisted open the bottle and sniffed it warily. “Ugh. Why is it such a big deal anyway? It looks just like overcomplicated milk.” 

He wasn’t a fan of milk either, honestly. Something about drinking a beverage that came directly from an animal didn’t sit quite right with him. Although Aziraphale was usually the one with a tendency to be picky, Crowley did have standards, too. 

Aziraphale sighed. “I don’t know, maybe it had something to do with celebrating the new year. If I remember correctly, they used to drink it as a sort of toast for good health, prosperity, and the like. You’ve really never had eggnog?” 

Crowley shook his head. “Never. And I didn’t plan to either.” 

“Well, then this is the perfect opportunity. We always did enjoy trying new things together,” Aziraphale said. 

Reluctantly, Crowley pulled a glass over and poured himself a conservative amount of eggnog. This better not be awful. “If you’re talking about the oysters again, angel…” 

“Not just the oysters,” he answered, passing his glass to Crowley, “Nearly everything. We were around for the invention of, well, everything. After all.” 

Crowley hadn’t really paid all that much attention, instead contemplating the drink in front of him. He had to be honest, it didn’t look all that bad. Not to say that he’d actually  _ like  _ it, he’d never give Aziraphale the satisfaction, but it might be tolerable. He swirled the glass around once, twice, and then, well. There was really only one thing left to do. He considered pinching his nose as he sipped at it, just for dramatic effect, but ultimately decided there was no reason to be that petty. 

Hesitantly, he brought it to his mouth and sipped. He smacked his lips, preparing for some overwhelming, involuntary response, but...eh. 

Crowley looked to Aziraphale, who was watching him closely over the rim of his own glass, an eyebrow raised in question. 

“Needs more alcohol,” Crowley finally said, and turned to search his cabinets. 

Aziraphale sighed, loud enough that Crowley could hear it and feel sufficiently attacked. 

_ “What _ ?” He groaned, rifling through an assortment of bottles. 

“Crowley, it’s already made with rum.” 

Crowley scoffed, “Obviously not enough.” 

“Crowley,” Aziraphale said again, “It really doesn’t need anymore-” 

Determined, he responded, “Hold on, angel. I know I’ve got a bottle of Captain Morgan’s in here somewhere.” 

He searched only a moment longer, tuning out Aziraphale as he muttered, “Oh, for heaven’s sake,” and turned, triumphantly holding the very bottle by the neck. He poured a generous amount into the glass, balanced it out with a touch more eggnog, and tasted it again. 

“Oh,” he said aloud, “That’s much better. You sure you don’t want some?” 

Aziraphale’s eyes flicked between Crowley and the bottle of rum. Crowley helpfully pushed it closer to him, enticing him into joining. 

“Well,” he finally said, “Alright. I should have known better than to give you the opportunity to tempt me.” 

“And yet you always do,” Crowley answered coolly and smiled, filling Aziraphale’s glass to the brim. 

Aziraphale thanked him and sipped politely at the concoction. He coughed almost instantly, and Crowley’s smile faltered. 

“Angel? Are you alright?” 

He coughed again. “That’s practically undrinkable! Do you even realize how strong it is?” 

Concern subsided, Crowley answered, “What? It’s just a little burn, angel. I could still use more of a kick.” 

“Well of course  _ you _ could,” Aziraphale teased, smirking with those angelic lips. 

Crowley could get drunk now. He could get as drunk as he wanted, absolutely smashed, and he wouldn’t have to worry about a thing. He wouldn’t have to worry about saying too much, about breaking the silence, about crossing beyond the boundaries of the Arrangement. There was no Arrangement at all anymore, just he and Aziraphale, and all the time in the world. Maybe if he weren’t a demon, Crowley would consider it a blessing. He could get completely wasted, annihilated, shit-faced, blacked-out drunk with Aziraphale now, and he intended to. 

“Don’t test me, angel,” he responded, taking the Captain Morgan’s bottle in one hand and his glass in the other. “I will drink all of this here and now.” 

“Mhmm,” Aziraphale answered, following Crowley to his couch. “And you’ll discorporate yourself in the process, too.” 

“Guess you’ll have to split it with me, then,” he set both down on the coffee table in front of them, before sitting next to Aziraphale. Closer. Closer. Close enough that their arms were touching, directly up against each other, sharing their warmth. He wrapped his arm around Aziraphale’s shoulders, pulling him even closer with a grin. 

Once they settled in, Aziraphale said, “Well, a toast must be in order, then.” 

“Oh?” Crowley asked, “A toast to what exactly, angel?” Aziraphale was shining but, then again, he was always glowing in Crowley’s eyes.

“To health and prosperity?” he offered. 

Crowley rolled his eyes and lifted his glass as well. “To us, angel. And to how plastered we’re about to get.”

That seemed to appease Aziraphale, because he clinked his glass against Crowley’s with his not-so-angelic smile, and leaned against him, drink held delicately to his lips.


	15. laughing all the way

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> they laugh.

_ (day 15: laughter) _

Aziraphale was still learning to appreciate these lazy mornings. While he always feared he was something of a glutton, he prided himself on his unwillingness to bow to Sloth. He kept himself busy with books and restoration and minor miracles to make life easier all around. He never slept. He didn’t need to. 

It was Crowley who had introduced him to sleeping, not long ago. He still didn’t quite enjoy it, but he loved this. He loved just laying in bed with Crowley, ignorant to the rest of the universe, holding his sleeping lover in his arms. He could watch Crowley for hours, and sometimes he quite literally did. He stared at the hair, flaming as anything; stared at the slow rise and fall of his chest; smiled at the occasional open-mouthed snore. He cast little miracles here and there, if Crowley suddenly stirred or if his face screwed up into a frown. Just small ones to ensure that his dreams were pleasant, or that his sleep was sufficiently restful. 

And, sometimes, when he was lonely, he’d use a miracle to wake him up. 

He stirred with a slight furrowing of his brows, then a yawn, then he wriggled out of Aziraphale’s grasp in order to stretch. His whole body was involved in these stretches, almost as if his skeleton forgot momentarily that it was contained in a human-shaped vessel. It was fascinating. 

“Good morning, dearest,” Aziraphale greeted, smiling as Crowley peeked one eye open, almost as if he wasn’t sure of where he was. 

He looked up at Aziraphale, then closed his eyes again. “S’too early, angel.”

Aziraphale pouted. He should have made sure Crowley couldn’t fall back asleep. He’d been awake since sunrise already, and had been waiting for more than long enough to speak to him. 

He sat quietly for a few moments, contemplating Crowley. He’d rolled onto his stomach and was halfway out from under the blankets, long legs laying down the length of the mattress. Aziraphale sighed and laid down. 

Absently, he reached across the distance to stroke his hand through Crowley’s hair, from the scalp to the very ends of his hair, lingering there. He almost wished Crowley would grow it out again. There was something sinfully beautiful about those violent crimson waves that he used to sport, something that, before, Aziraphale forced himself to ignore. Maybe, just maybe, he’d convince him to grow it out again. 

“Love?” Aziraphale prompted, his hand repeating the previous motion. 

Half asleep, Crowley responded with, “Mhm?” 

He hesitated, fingers focused on mussing one particular strand. “You’re on the other side of the bed.” 

Crowley hummed once more and shifted slightly, but made no effort to move closer. Perhaps he couldn’t hear. For all Aziraphale knew, he was likely asleep by now. It never took him long to doze off, and once he did, he could sleep like the dead. 

Unfortunately, that was one fact that Aziraphale had known before they were together. 

“Crowley,” he tried again, “You promised that we wouldn’t  _ have _ sides anymore. Just our side, remember?” 

At that, Crowley’s eyes flew open, fixing on Aziraphale immediately. “Of course, angel,” he said, his voice so soft that Aziraphale feared he’d wounded him somehow, “What’s happened?” 

“What’s happened is that you are on the opposite side of the bed, my dear, and I demand that you come back into my arms.” 

He could barely contain a small laugh as he watched Crowley work his way through several layers of confusion, only to end up glaring harmlessly. “You’re a bastard, you know that?”   
Well, yes. He did. But he offered an open embrace instead of an answer, and Crowley slithered his way into it. Even though Crowley was cold-blooded, Aziraphale felt warm. And he felt...some feeling that he couldn’t quite name yet. Something having to do with the knowledge that, not so long ago, he never would have dreamed that this was possible. Something akin to the way he felt on the day after the world didn’t end; the first day of the rest of their lives. It almost wasn’t real, and he was still struggling to come to terms with the fact that it _was_. They could have this now. They were free to do what they liked and no one, no one would dare to stop them. 

“Keep doing that thing with my hair,” Crowley murmured into Aziraphale’s chest. 

He chuckled lightly before continuing. This was worth everything. Crowley was worth everything. And if anyone tried to hurt him again…

Well, best not to think of that. There was no need to imagine such grisly things this early in the morning. 

Crowley’s hair was soft. Well, of course it was. Crowley liked to maintain perfection, and Aziraphale wouldn’t put it past him to use some supernatural power in order to keep it like this. He wasn’t complaining either. 

He teased the tips of Crowley’s hair through his hands, coming to focus on the contrast. The passion of red against the clarity of white. And, oh dear, was that really what his nails looked like? 

“I really ought to schedule an appointment,” he mused aloud.

“What was that?” Crowley asked, shifting and looking up at Aziraphale. 

“Hm? Oh, for my nails, dear, they’re awfully unkempt,” he explained, then displayed his hand. 

Crowley grasped it and inspected his nails. “Angel, they’re fine.” 

Aziraphale, unwilling to move his hand, went on as Crowley continued to turn it over. “They absolutely are not. I usually get them manicured every other Tuesday, and I haven’t had a chance to go since the end of last month.” 

“Really, angel, they just look like nails. Besides, I’ve never seen you wear nail polish.” 

“Well of course you haven’t. I normally just get them done in the French style,” he pulled Crowley’s hand towards him, thoughtfully. He’d look lovely with some black polish. Oh, or maybe with a shade of deep wine. “Come to think of it, I don’t think I’ve ever seen you try it either.” 

“I did a few times,” Crowley offered, “But my hands aren’t very steady. I mainly made a mess of things and miracled it away before I saw you.” 

With a grin, Aziraphale took his chance. “Then perhaps I should paint them for you.” 

His smile only grew as Crowley said, “W-Angel, really, you don’t need to. I’m fine like this, and-”

“And nothing, my dear boy. Sit up now.” 

Crowley groaned as he complied, but Aziraphale was determined. He hoisted Crowley upwards and sat across from him, rolling his sleeves up to his elbows. 

“Any requests? I can’t promise that it’ll be perfect, but I will try my best,” he asked, settling in and summoning a towel from the bathroom to lay on the bed in between them.” 

“You really don’t have to do this, angel, I’m fine without-” 

“My dear boy,” Aziraphale said, looking at Crowley with sudden intensity, “I’ve quite made up my mind. Trust me, you’ll enjoy it.”

Crowley sighed and said, “Alright, angel,” and that was all that Aziraphale needed to hear. He flourished his hand and a vial of red, red nail polish appeared. 

“You’ll have to hold rather still, darling,” he said as he twisted off the cap, “Give me your hand.” 

And so Crowley reached out his hand, and Aziraphale held it gently, very gently. The brush was coated with the nail polish, and Aziraphale wiped the excess off on the rim. Delicately, he painted Crowley’s index, then the middle, then ring, then-

Suddenly, Crowley started giggling. Not his typical laugh, but a genuine  _ giggle _ , small and delighted and Aziraphale just had to pause and ask what had happened. 

“I’m sorry, angel, I just,” he trailed off into more laughter, “I just...this is…” 

Aziraphale smiled. It wasn’t often that Crowley acted like this, at least not while he was sober. “You really don’t like it?” 

He continued laughing, before he said, “Angel, you’re painting my nails.” 

Aziraphale didn’t follow. “Well, yes? 

Crowley shook his head and said, “Just can’t believe it, it’s all,” and then continued on. 

He had a point, didn’t he? Just a few months ago, they’d been scared of what would happen if anyone would even see them in a room together. It was all they could do to keep their distance, to give no one any reason to suspect them. 

Now, they were sitting on a bed together, and Aziraphale was painting Crowley’s nails red, and they had absolutely nothing to worry about except going outside the cuticles. Aziraphale grinned and set the cap back on the bottle. “Come here then, dearest.”

He placed a hand on his shoulder to coax him closer, before kissing him sweetly.  They eyed each other for a moment afterward, then burst out laughing, together in a shared embrace. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> once again, credit to my lovely partner for the drawing (and endless moral support)! also, can you leave a comment if you can see the image? we had some trouble with it yesterday.


End file.
